A/N: Alright, whip out your tissues. This is the sad (or angry?) chapter!
-Soph
Bar
The Old Haunt is his regular bar. It's quieter than most places and offers him a modicum of privacy in a city that's otherwise very public. He likes to go there to write; nurse a glass of Scotch while he turns empty notepads into the beginnings of a novel and wears out pencil after pencil late into the night.
Tonight, the Old Haunt is closed for reasons unknown to him.
Richard Castle really wants to write, though, so he heads a few blocks southwards; finds a bar that's not too full but not too empty, and secludes himself into a corner booth with a baseball cap for a measure of anonymity.
It's not really that he can't write without a drink, but he finds that it loosens his thoughts and shakes the words out of his mind more easily. It's been ages since he's left boarding school—more than a decade, even—but sometimes the taunts of cruel schoolboys from years past still echo in his head ("You're just a loser, Ricky!"), shaking him up and causing the insecurities constantly pressing on his chest to squeeze in a vice grip. The low, buzzing hum of a bar drowns out those insecurities. Sometimes, they stave off his loneliness, too.
So, he likes writing in bars. He has no idea if that's conventional, but it's what he does.
The words flow smoothly tonight, and he manages to tune out the rest of the world as he scribbles furiously in his notepad. His writing, when hurried, is barely legible to readers other than him, but that doesn't bother him: He will typewrite its entirety out later, fixing any grammatical mistakes he may encounter at the same time. He isn't too bothered about having, in a way, to write his novel twice. It's the only job he has to do.
A glance at his watch tells him it's nearing four hours since he first sat down that he finally looks up, stretching out the sore muscles of his hand and straightening his back. It pops loudly, and he winces; it doesn't hurt, but it reminds him that maybe the lifestyle of being constantly hunched over a notebook and writing like a mad man isn't one meant to be sustained long-term. He twists his neck left and right, rubbing out the kinks in his shoulders with a hand—
—and that's when his eyes fall on the slim brunette at a corner of the bar counter.
He remembers her. Kate. That's her name. She was memorable.
Her story is a tragic one. She'd come back to New York for her mother's funeral, she'd told him. But he doesn't know what she's doing all alone at the bar now, her slim fingers wrapped tightly around a glass of liquor. She's still in what appears to be her funeral dress—black and proper and still neatly pressed, despite the dishevelled look of her braided hair—and his heart gives a pang at the sight. He remembers how sad she'd been, and it doesn't seem right that she's trying to forget her sorrows in alcohol. He's been in that place. The buzz keeps the pain temporarily at bay, and the misery comes back tenfold in the morning.
He debates for a moment going over to her. They're still strangers, after all; despite that brief moment of connection they'd had on a shared flight home, she might not appreciate his minding her business. But then she drops her head and visibly sighs, and he can't stay away any longer. Call it pity, or attraction, or vastly misplaced concern—but she looks in need of company, and he knows her. He knows her story. He can't let her grieve alone.
He stands, packs up his stuff, and makes his way over to her. "Kate?" he greets softly. The girl starts and fumbles a little in her seat, proof that she's not quite sober. She's not drunk yet, though, and it's evident when she turns to regard him with eyes that are only somewhat clouded.
"Rick?" she asks in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," he blurts before he can think better of it, sounding every bit the disapproving school marm he doesn't mean to be, and her eyes dim a little. Grimacing, he sits on the bar stool beside hers. "I meant," he says apologetically, "are you okay?"
She waves a careless hand. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
She sighs again. "Fine as I can be," she deflects before repeating to him, "So, what are you doing here?"
"Writing," he admits sheepishly, gesturing at the leather folder containing his work with a slight nudge of his hand. "Can't do it without some Scotch."
"Oh." She looks bewildered by that.
"Eh, it's a process." He shrugs. Another glance at his watch tells him it's approaching two-thirty; it's late, and he wants to go home. But she's still sitting here, and … he doesn't really want to leave her alone.
She doesn't miss his less-than-subtle action, though. He doesn't know if he imagines it, but her face seems to darken. "You need to go," she surmises, her voice low with regret.
"I do," he agrees. "But—hey, are you here with anyone?"
She raises her eyebrows, looking unamused. "Is that you asking me out?"
"No!" he splutters. At her affronted stare, he continues more softly, blustering, "I—I mean, you're really pretty; I'd ask you out under different circumstances; but … I just wanted to know if you could get home okay."
It doesn't appear to make the situation better. "I can take a cab," she huffs. "I'm not stupid."
"I—I know," he stammers, "I'm just … trying to be chivalrous?"
She rubs her temples, clearly exasperated. "You're really bad at it," she complains.
"I know," he replies with a cringe.
She lets out another breath of impatience, but slips down from her bar stool (unsteadily, but on her own). "Okay, you can hail me a cab. I was going to leave soon, anyway," she says, and her concession does strange things to his heart. But he's a gentleman and these aren't 'different circumstances', so he reins in the excited thought that sits on the edge of his tongue. Instead, he throws a few bills onto the bar counter, hard-headedly ignoring the force of her glare, and touches her forearm to guide her in the direction of the doors.
She lets him lead her out.
Outside, the air is cold—the wind hits him with a sharp slap. Kate shivers; without saying a word, he removes his own coat to drape around her shoulders. She opens her mouth, probably to protest, but he silences her with a look.
"Where's your coat?" he asks. Even through the dim rays of the streetlights, he sees her flush.
"I don't have one," she admits shamefully. He clucks his tongue.
"You show up at a bar without a coat, in a funeral dress, your hair all … lopsided, in the middle of the night—"
"Save me the lecture that would make my mother proud," she interrupts loudly, sharply; angrily. "She was murdered, Rick, she—I—we had to postpone the funeral because the morgue had to stitch her up. I just wanted to forget. I wanted to forget because I—"
Anger turns into devastation in all of a sudden; devastation morphs quickly into horror that has her retching, nauseated, against the side exterior of the bar she has just exited. He knows it's the grief—she hasn't drunk that much—and he feels guilt overwhelm him. . Murdered. How is that even possible? That doesn't happen to people in real life. But this girl—she just … god, she can't catch a break. And he … he's just reminded her of what she's trying to forget.
He's a damn screw-up; that's what he is.
Guilt pushes him forwards; forces him to lay a hand on her lower back, offering silent support, as she throws up. He doesn't know if it's appropriate, but anything else would be inappropriate now that he's done this.
She straightens up once she's finished, her back towards him as she chokes out a bitter laugh. "This please you, Rick?" she asks quietly. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. "You are a murder mystery writer, after all. This kind of death … it's right up your alley."
Her words are cruel. So cruel. But he knows she's just lashing out against the hurt he's caused her.
"I'm sorry," he answers lamely. "I know it's a platitude you can do nothing with now, but … I'm really sorry, Kate. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."
Her shoulders sag, all the fight going out of her. "I can't forget," she replies simply. "It's not your fault."
It feels like his fault, because she had seemed relatively okay until he started lecturing her on not being dressed properly—of all the stupid things—but he doesn't think arguing with her is a good idea. So, he keeps silent until she shuffles tentatively to face him.
"My mom met you once," she starts, and then she lowers her eyes. "I think she would be so ashamed to see me talking to her favourite author that way."
"I think she'd understand," he murmurs. He expects her to light right into him for presuming he has the faintest idea of what her mom would think, but she nods instead, taking his acceptance of her disguised apology for what it is.
"R-Rick?" Her voice breaks, betraying her vulnerability.
"Mm?"
"Walk me home?" she whispers. He doesn't really get a chance to process her words—let alone come up with an answer—before she's tearing up, already wanting to take back her plea. "I—I just don't feel like taking a cab, and … forget it; I—"
"Hey," he cuts in softly. "If you need me to walk you home, I'll walk you home."
Her eyes dart up to his. "I don't usually let strange men take me around," she insists, as if determined to prove to him that she's more responsible than this. "I just—"
"I get it, Kate," he promises. "And hey, look: If it makes you feel any better, you know my name and my occupation. The bartender knows we left together. We've already talked once without any issues and, to cinch the deal, I'll keep a one-foot distance from you at all times."
She nods, relieved, but steps closer to him anyway. He guesses that, for some reason, she trusts him; which is a little ironic, because he had just given her reason to paint the sidewalk with splatter.
But when she points out the direction to her apartment and starts walking, he follows her.
She trusts him, and that's an honour he can't repay. Not in this lifetime.
Her mother was murdered.
She's letting him walk her home.
You don't take that kind of trust for granted.
-.-.-.-.-
They are silent on the walk, partly because they are mostly still strangers and partly because small talk would be too trite but anything else, too serious.
When they reach the end of her block, she unwraps his coat from her shoulders and returns it to him (thankfully free of vomit, not that he would have blamed her if it hadn't been) with a hesitant, wavering smile on her face.
"Thank you," she says. "I know it wasn't in your plans tonight to have to walk me home…"
"My pleasure," he answers sincerely, "always."
Her hesitant smile stretches the tiniest bit.
"A-and I know it's not really my place," he adds on impulse, tripping over his own tongue as his mind comes alight with an idea, "and I want to make it very clear that I'm not trying to ask you out and you have no obligations at all, but—" He pulls a pen from his front pocket and silently gestures towards her palm, which she extends to him and allows him to write on, "—this is my personal cell. And before you go there—I'm not giving it to you out of pity. But if you need anything at all, at any time, even if it's just someone to walk you home from a bar, you can call me. I'll answer. But I want to be clear once more that this is no-strings-attached. If you never want to see me again, then feel free to wash this away."
She stares at it for so long that he starts to worry about whether or not he did the right thing. ("You're just a half-witted idiot your mother picked up from the drain, Ricky.")
Finally, she closes her palm and looks up. "Tell you a secret?" she asks. He nods. She chuckles sadly before confessing, "I'm nineteen. I wasn't supposed to be in that bar. I had a fake ID."
Oh. Oh, that makes things a lot more awful and tragic. (And he's an asshole, telling a nineteen-year-old he'd ask her out under different circumstances.)
She shifts on her feet. "You won't tell, right?" she continues, her voice strained. "I'll try not to do it again."
And even though he knows he shouldn't, he shakes his head. "I won't tell," he says. "But I really hope you find a better way, Kate."
She gives him another nod, blinking fiercely as her lip trembles. "Goodnight, Rick."
"G'night, Kate."
He watches to make sure she gets into her apartment building safely.
He really hopes she finds a better way.
