A/N: First of all, let me thank everybody who reviewed. I can't even tell you how much your words of encouragement and appreciation mean to me. Secondly - a few clarifications. Yes, this is a multi-chapter story. I think the final number should be somewhere between 15 and 20 chapters. I'm going to post every three days, but I'm making an exception for this second chapter because you guys have been so awesome, and I don't want to leave your hearts broken for too long :).
Disclaimer: In my dreams I own Castle. And then I wake up.
When he's a little less broken, a little more put together, he books plane tickets for Paris.
Jim's right.
He needs to get his shit together. He can't do this to his daughter; he can't abandon her, not when he's the only stable thing she's ever had in her life.
He might not feel much like a dad right now, but he can at least try. He can show her that he's trying, that she's still the center of his world. Even when his world has shattered to a thousand pieces.
It's the end of summer; when he finally steps out of the metro at the stop where Alexis said she'd be waiting for him, the air is fresh and crisp, the leaves a delicate harmony of green and pale orange.
His daughter's red hair is as recognizable as ever, but - wow - she's cut it. It's now in an adorable bob around her face, and he thinks maybe she's lost weight, unless it's the haircut that makes her look thinner, so elegant and...French.
So grown-up.
"Hi, Dad," she says tentatively, approaching him with a smile on her lips, but a wary look in her blue eyes.
It's only then that he realizes what he's done, what his careless behavior must have felt like to her. Oh, god. He's broken them, hasn't he? Or he might have if his daughter didn't have the most loving, forgiving heart on the entire planet. Out of nowhere a memory surges, twelve-year-old Alexis complaining about not being able to hold a grudge, and then he's crushing her in his arms, his cheek crushed against her temple.
"I'm so sorry," he murmurs, over and over, can't believe- "Alexis. Oh, pumpkin. Alexis."
She makes a breathy little sound against his shoulder. At first he thinks it's a sob, but then her face turns into his, her lips pressed into his cheek, and he can feel her smile.
Oh, he's missed this.
"Dad," she says, and there's so much relief, so much joy pouring out of her.
He loosens his arms around her, has to take a step back so he can look, feed off her bright, beautiful energy. God, his daughter. Thank you, thank you.
"You cut your hair," he observes, can't force anything but those silly words past his throat.
She laughs a little, gives a self-conscious little tilt of her head. "I know. Weird, huh? I'm still trying to get used to it."
She runs a hand over the exposed skin of her neck, a flash of that shy little girl she once was, and Castle finds himself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time in months.
"I love it," he says honestly. "It's gorgeous. Très chic," he adds, making good use of what little French he knows. His accent is terrible, of course, but his daughter laughs again and beams at him.
And he thinks, maybe, maybe-
his life is still worth living after all.
Being back in New York City is both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing because his daughter has made a life for herself in Paris, and no matter how much she tried to include him, to be there to show him around, she had classes and work and he ended up spending a lot of time on his own, simply walking around the city, imagining what Kate would think of this church, whether she would love that street.
He can't seem to help himself.
So New York is good, yes, except he's lonely here. He hasn't been in touch with Ryan and Esposito, and he's not sure what sort of welcome he would receive if he were to contact the guys now. He almost does, his thumb hovering over the green button below Ryan's number, but then he chickens out of it, buries his iphone into his pocket instead. He's fine. He'll...
He'll watch TV. There.
TV's good. Safe. Doesn't require the sort of human interaction he used to be so good at, and apparently can't handle now. But nothing interesting is on, and while he was able to sit through anything before - even those terrible reality shows where couples search for their perfect house - now it just makes him restless.
He could probably put a DVD on, but instead he just turns the whole system off, goes to his computer. He's shot Alexis a quick text saying he'd arrived safely, and he sees when he opens his inbox that she emailed him all the pictures she took. She bought herself a fancy camera - new hobby of hers - and they had fun doing all sorts of weird poses in front of the Eiffel tower, the Louvre pyramid, the Luxembourg gardens.
He skims through them, smiling at the most ridiculous ones, and it makes it all the more painful when he finally looks up from his laptop to find the loft silent and deserted.
He'd thought his mother might be here, but maybe she has better things to do than to welcome her son home. Her acting school has really picked up over the last few months, and she found an apartment closer to it, moved out before he left for Paris. She asked him a thousand times if it was okay with him, if he was sure, and since she turned a deaf ear to his reassurances he ended up telling her that it was about damn time she stopped living at his expense.
Yeah. He should probably call her and apologize.
Maybe tomorrow.
This would be a perfect time to write, he reflects, stretching his legs under his desk. If he were still a writer, that is. He's systematically deleted all emails from Gina for the last couple months, because he can't take her constant harassing. He knows that he's broken his contract, knows that he was supposed to submit a manuscript last September, but what the hell can he do?
The words won't come. He's not sure they'll ever come again.
Huh. He sees as he scrolls down that he's also got a few emails from Paula that he hasn't even opened. He's tempted to leave them untouched, but he's actually had a pretty good day, so...now might be the time to do the right thing. He quickly reads through them - invitations to parties, mostly, accompanied by Paula's colorful exhortations to go and have fun - and when his eyes land on the date of the last one, he realizes that it's tonight.
Seven pm, formal dress required. He glances at the clock: it's only four. Plenty of time to make up his mind.
Does he want to go?
It can't be worse than sitting here alone, wallowing in misery because he misses both Kate and his daughter. Yeah. Why not? Besides, he's got a few tuxes in his closet that would probably be more than happy to see daylight again.
The car service, the ride in the luxurious elevator, the forced smile of the maid as she opens the door - everything feels off, wrong. Like stepping in someone else's shoes.
Why did he bother?
He's not that guy anymore; he hasn't written a line since Kate fell from that bridge, and it's not like he needs to maintain the reputation, the public persona he once had. Firing Paula is what he should do, instead of-
"Rick Castle."
He turns with a surprised flutter of his heart, moved by the genuine tenderness he hears in that once-familiar voice. Well. That's unexpected.
"Kyra."
She smiles, her eyes soft as she regards him; her hair is arranged into artful waves, a green, siren-like dress wrapped around her body. She looks stunning, if a little forlorn.
"Didn't expect to find you here," he says, just as she observes, "I thought you'd given up on events like this."
They share one of these half-awkward, half-amused laughs, and she takes a sip of champagne - to try and hide the blush on her cheeks, maybe.
"I had. I have. I-" he throws his hands up, puzzled at himself. "I've no idea what I'm doing here."
Kyra gives him a knowing grin. "Well. I'm here because I had to escape my mother's claws for a few hours, or there might've been another murder for the NYPD to solve."
The moment the words come out of her mouth, her smile falls off her face, eyes widening as she realizes what she's said. So - she knows. Of course.
He doesn't want to talk about it.
"How come your mother's staying with you?" he asks instead, remembering the opulent SoHo apartment that Mrs. Blaine always took such pride in. He can't quite believe the Blaines would sell and move out of the city-
Kyra's eyes flick down, a brief flutter of lashes that would have flipped his heart in his chest when he was twenty-one. "She's not," she confesses in a low voice. "I - I'm the one that's been staying with her." He knits his eyebrows, opens his mouth - then wonders if he really should ask. Kyra reads him easily, though, and answers his unvoiced question with a little shrug. "Greg and I are getting a divorce." She's never been a good actress. Despite her nonchalant act, the hurt shines through her voice.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, meaning it. He thought- "You guys seemed pretty perfect for each other." And so in love.
She presses her mouth together, looks obstinately at her glass. "Yeah, well. I guess these things happen." And then she lifts her chin, meets his gaze with that openness he's always loved about her. "I'm sorry about Kate, too."
Shit. The air suddenly feels heavy, his throat too raw, and he just-
Shouldn't time make it easier?
"Yeah," is the only thing he manages to push out. Ridiculous.
"Were you guys..." Kyra doesn't finish her sentence, but she doesn't need to. He knows what she means.
He takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, we'd been - together - for five months. It was still-"
New? Wonderful? Fragile?
There are no words that can quite capture it, so he doesn't bother trying to find them. She can probably hear it all in his voice anyway, the crushed hopes and the longing he can't even attempt to conceal. Over a year.
It's been over a year, and still he misses her like he did on that very first day, clouds blanketing the sky above the bridge.
Kyra's fingers come around his, light and warm, and he startles, lifts his eyes to hers. She looks - she looks like she's hurting for him, like she understands, and it soothes something deep inside him. A need for company, compassion, that he wasn't even aware of.
"Thank you," he murmurs, and there's such sadness, such disenchantment in the smile she gives him in return. "You wanna get out of here?" he asks suddenly, pushed by a desire to see something else in her eyes than this bone-deep weariness. He can't help but remember the way they were at twenty, smart and happy and so arrogant, confident that they could be anything they wanted, anything they set their minds to.
What he wouldn't give to have that back.
Kyra lifts her eyebrows at him. "And go where?"
He shrugs, the answer falling from his mouth naturally. "The roof."
A slow grin spreads on her face, that twinkle in her eyes that makes her look ten years younger. "Maybe it's not open anymore."
"Worth a try," he says, injecting a little challenge to his voice. "Unless of course you think we're too old..."
She narrows her eyes at him. "Lead the way."
They end up spending the whole night there, huddled together for warmth, just talking. Kyra's pretty great to talk to; he'd kind of forgotten. She knows how to listen, what to say to keep the conversation going. She also shares just enough to keep him on his toes, make him want more, in a way that is both Beckett-like and un-Beckett-like.
Kyra's more deliberate than Kate, he thinks. It's not that she does it on purpose - or well, maybe she does? Not consciously, but yes, on purpose.
She knows how to tease a man's curiosity, leave him wanting.
Yeah. Maybe she and Beckett have that in common, actually. And he needs to stop drawing parallels.
"So what happened with you and Greg?" he asks quietly when he feels he can ask, and she might actually give him an answer. Her fingers curl against his, and she lets out a long sigh, rests her head onto his shoulder. He steals a sideways look, realizes with a pang that there's a lone tear rolling down her cheek. Jeez, he sucks.
"I don't even know, Rick. He can be such a pigheaded jerk, and we're just - we were always pretty bad at communicating. I thought he spent too much time at work, he thought I wasn't being understanding enough, and before I knew it our fights had just - completely blown out of proportion." She shakes her head, making such an effort to gather herself that he can't help reaching out, squeezing his fingers over her knee. "We said such horrible things to each other. Things that I don't think we could recover from. So when he came home with the divorce papers, I was actually - relieved, I think. Some part of me, at least. The cowardly part," she chuckles darkly.
It hurts, the way she says those words. He never thought of Kyra Blaine as a coward.
"I'm sorry," he says, resting his head on top of hers. "I'm sorry for you and Greg. Sometimes things just don't work out, do they?" She makes a low humming sound, and he's suddenly reminded what a lovely voice she's got. He'd often ask her to sing when they were together; he would request songs in the darkness of his bedroom and then listen to her, fingers skimming over her bare skin. "You should sing me something," he says, part joking and part serious. He's curious to see if she'll do it.
She huffs at him, her head rolling against his shoulder - obviously a no - but then, after a moment of shared silence, she nudges his knee with hers. "Okay. Which song do you want?"
"Um. Anything you like."
"You always were such a big help," she teases, shoving her elbow into him. "All right."
She sings quietly, her voice crystal clear in the dark of night. He doesn't know the song, but the lyrics are beautiful, something about wanting to know the real story behind someone's scars, or choosing to believe the person's protective lies instead. Of course, the only thing he can think of after that is the way Kate's puckered scar felt under his fingers that very first time, how she let him touch, guided his hand between her breasts.
And that look she gave him, lowered lashes and lip caught between her teeth.
Kate.
"Well," Kyra says, resting her fork next to her plate as she licks her lips with a smile. "I must say, I'm impressed, Rick. I had no idea you were such a fine cook."
He takes a sip of wine, grins back at her. "Years of being a single parent, you know. And too many hours listening to Martha Stewart's lovely voice."
She chuckles, a warm and quiet sound that echoes nicely in his kitchen, and he's surprised how right it feels for the loft to be filled with life again.
He was a little wary when he invited her over. Although he and Kyra have been spending a lot of time together over the past few weeks, going to movies and restaurants, taking walks in the park, he still wasn't sure he'd be comfortable having her in his space. The space that's been his and his alone during this long, painful year of mourning. But he was wrong. She...she fits somehow.
She respects his boundaries, doesn't ask questions he's not ready to answer, and in return he does the same for her. They keep the conversation light, talk about things that are emotionally neutral - books they've read, shows they watch - and it works out really well.
He's pathetically thankful he has a friend again.
"So what's for dessert, chef Castle?" she asks, her brown eyes playful. "Macaroons? A chocolate parfait?"
"Ah," he sighs in mock desolation. "I'm afraid I might disappoint. I've only got...ice cream," he reveals after a dramatic pause, watching her mouth curl up.
"Well. I suppose I could go for ice cream," she says, like she's making the biggest compromise. "If it was that delicious Lemon Meringue from Perry's."
"Yeah? Funny you should say that," he answers, pretending surprise. "It's exactly the one I have in my freezer."
"Serendipitous," Kyra says with that cute knowing grin, a wiggle of her eyebrow. And though he's aware she's only doing it because she knows how much he loves five-syllable words, he can't help the deep hum of appreciation in his chest.
The first time she kisses him - or should he say, kisses him again? - they're in a movie theater.
Everybody else has left the room. Only he and Kyra remain, because he wanted to know the name of the song that played during the first part of the final credits. And there's something about lingering in a theater once the film is over, letting his mind wrap around the ending, ponder over the message that was given him. He likes it. Even when the movie was nothing more than a light-hearted comedy.
"I think my favorite scene was the one with the dog," Kyra comments, laughter still bubbling in her voice. "Oh, the mom's face when she realized he'd peed all over the carpet - it was priceless."
"Dog was a pretty amazing actor," Castle agrees, glancing at her with a smile. "Not many could have pulled off such a great innocent look. That little tilt of his head-"
"Oh, and with his floppy ears? Man, that was adorable. I lo-ove floppy ears," she sighs in satisfaction, resting her head back against the seat and angling it towards him.
That's the Kyra he remembers, a little exuberant and passionate over things that he doesn't really understand. He looks at her, strangely moved by the pleasure that has flushed her cheeks, her striking resemblance with the young woman he fell in love with all those years ago. She meets his eyes and it's there in her face too, whatever this is between them. She parts her mouth as if to say something, then changes her mind. But she cants towards him, her elbow nudging his on the armrest, and slowly, slowly, she feathers her lips over his.
He shuts his eyes tight, his heart desperately torn, feels the warm caress of Kyra's breath at his mouth. God, this isn't - he doesn't-
His hand lifts of his own accord, curls around her neck; he strokes his thumb over her ear and kisses her back, just for a second, just to see. It takes like betrayal, his mind protesting his treachery, screaming in revolt - but his body tells another story. His body craves this, her, the kinship and comfort of a woman's touch, soft skin pressed against his. Need throbs in his blood, a sharp burn, and he drops his head, breaking away in shame.
He's been so very lonely.
"Kyra-"
"I know," she murmurs, a hand resting over his chest. "Doesn't feel right, does it?"
He wishes-
so many things.
Her fingers dance over the fabric of his shirt, and he grits his teeth to suppress a shiver. Then comes the warm touch of her mouth at his cheek, startling, and he just - can't make himself move away.
"But it does feel good," she whispers, and what can he say to that?
Yes. Yes, it feels good. Yes, he wants her. But Kyra's not Kate; she will never be Kate.
He can't do this to her.
"Rick," she breathes, nose flirting with his, and already he can feel himself breaking at the softness, the tentative lift in her voice. He opens his eyes, desperate for her to see what he cannot find the words for, how broken and hopeless he is, truly.
He might only have spent a couple months dating Kate, but he was in love with her for years leading up to that (he likes to think that some part of her was in love with him, too). And Kate Beckett - Kate Beckett ruined him.
No other woman will ever do it for him.
"Oh, Rick," Kyra sighs, her mouth finding his once again. Does she not see- "I know," she assures him softly, her fingers threading through the greying hair at his temples. "I know you loved her, baby. Anyone could see that. But she's - she's not coming back. And I really am sorry."
God, it hurts. He keeps expecting his chest to blow open under the force of it one day, his heart too heavy, saturated with all the love he can no longer give. Little pieces of ribs and lungs and flesh scattered all over his living room.
"Do you think I don't miss Greg?" Kyra murmurs, her voice so raw, and shit - he can't do this. He can't- "I do. Every day. Every damn day. But Rick - you help me. Being with you helps me. And I think...I think it helps you too."
He wants to cry. He's going to cry, because yes, she's right, it does help him. And what does that mean? What does that make him? If he can forget Kate so easily, can just cling onto the next distraction until he doesn't spend every second of his day aching for her-
Okay, not fair. Kyra's many things, but he can't call her a distraction.
"I'm not saying this is the right thing," she says, her voice breaking. "I don't know that any more than you do. But you and I, we always had this thing between us, right? And if it can help us now, if we can help each other, then why shouldn't we?"
He's got no answers for her. He can only stare at her face, exhausted by the war that's being waged inside of him, the war he's losing.
Her hand curls over his, so gentle, and maybe that's what does it. Or maybe it's the realization of something that, deep down, he's always known: he needs people. He needs interaction and human contact, and the kindness that Kyra's been showing him-
He can't give it up.
It wouldn't work with anybody else; it wouldn't work if they didn't already know each other so well. But they do.
"We don't have to be more than friends if you don't want to," Kyra's saying soothingly as the final credits come to an end, the music fading out. "Or we can also take it slow, see what happens. I just don't want to lose you, Rick."
Right. This is not just about him. Kyra's been hurt, too, badly hurt - and who is he to refuse her the comfort she's so generously given him?
Maybe she's right. Maybe there's a chance they can make this work.
Maybe there's a life for him after Kate Beckett.
He gives a slow nod, flips his hand up so his palm meets Kyra's. "Slow sounds good," he murmurs, voice scratchy against his throat. He leans in to press a long kiss to her cheek, feels her breath of relief as he does, and then an employee comes into the room, starts cleaning up, and they have to get up and leave.
His body feels battered, every joint aching like he's actually been in a physical fight, but when he looks down there's a faint smile on Kyra's face, a shimmer of hope in her eyes that wasn't there before.
And damn it, yes, he does feel better for it.
The first time they have sex, it's Kate's name in his mouth when he comes, hoarse and breaking, his body bent over Kyra's.
He feels terrible for weeks after that, even if she keeps telling him that it doesn't matter, that she understands. He wishes she didn't; he wishes she would yell at him, tell him to man up. Demand more from him.
She's not Kate, he reminds himself.
The next time they're in bed together, he's careful to keep his mouth shut.
The call comes almost two years after the bridge. Six hundred and ninety-seven days of missing Kate, of trying to make a life without her.
His phone vibrates sharply against his nightstand, pulling him out of sleep at two in the morning; he grunts and rubs a hand over his eyes, no longer used to crazy hours. He could just turn around, go back to sleep-
The vibrations stop, then start again, relentless, and he surrenders with a sigh, grabs the cell as he slides his legs out of bed. Kyra's still asleep, and he doesn't want to wake her.
"Castle," he murmurs on a yawn, distractedly looking around for a t-shirt. He's got goosebumps from leaving the cocoon of his bed.
"Castle, it's Jordan. Shaw."
His attention is instantly commanded by the way her voice halts between the words, a sharpness that seems to cover something deeper. Like - hesitation?
He's never known Shaw to hesitate.
"Hi," he says, murmuring as he reaches to grab yesterday's t-shirt from the back of a chair. It's been a long time since they last spoke, and he can't think of any reason she'd be calling him except - but no. No. "Everything okay?" he forces himself to ask.
There's a short silence, then her voice again. Determined this time. "Castle, there's no easy way to say this. We caught Tyson."
They - what? He freezes.
"There was a murder. A girl in a small town, in the south of Canada. Sloppy enough that he actually got caught, and because the MO was so similar the police there thought to alert us."
Tyson is still alive. Tyson was hiding in a small town in Canada. Tyson is alive.
"Rick. Are you listening to me?"
"Yeah," he manages to blurt out, still paralyzed by the conclusion his brain is afraid to draw.
If Tyson's alive-
"You should sit down," Shaw suggests gently, and when is Shaw ever gentle? Shit. Shit- "We found her too," she says, a mixture of exhaustion and triumph coloring the words. "We found Beckett. He kept her in his basement, locked away as a sort of prisoner. She's alive, Castle. Not in the best shape, but she's alive."
His mind goes blank.
He swallows slowly, painfully, cuts his eyes to the bed and Kyra's sleeping form.
Kate.
Kate is alive.
Oh god. Oh god-
"Castle."
He's still holding the t-shirt, his hand in a fist, digging into the fabric, but Jordan's call spurs him back into motion. He spins, grabs his jeans as well, whatever underwear he can find, and slips out of the room.
"Where?"