Castle wakes to a slant of sunlight angling through the front cabin window to target him with laser-like precision. He squeezes his eyes shut again in protest, throwing one arm over his face and flipping over on the couch to burrow more deeply under the heavy wool blanket. He lies there for a moment, trying to decide what time it is (and trying to ascertain which cushion of the ancient couch is responsible for the ache in his back).
They'd pretty much crashed as soon as they'd brought in the supplies and suitcases last night; he'd half-wanted to flip a coin for the sole bedroom, but Beckett had shamed him into the show of chivalry that was to blame for his current lumbar situation before he could suggest it. It had been almost one am, after all, and he thinks she'd been glad for the excuse; it had felt strange to both of them, standing there staring at each other without a case to bounce off one another.
It's uncannily quiet in the cabin-he misses the city already-but from somewhere outside, he can hear a rhythmic thump, thump, whack...thump, thump whack that he can't place. He lies there another minute, trying to figure out its source (crazy country living!) then gives up, throwing back the blanket (best to rip it off like a Band-Aid) and shifting his feet to the rough wooden floor.
It's cold in the room (the fire they'd made in the grate had clearly petered out in the last few hours) but not freezing. He digs the Stanford University sweatshirt out of his suitcase (might as well get some use out of it here, since he can't wear it in Alexis' presence anymore), but doesn't bother to change out of the gym pants he'd pulled on before settling into his makeshift bed.
He reignites the fire, then glances toward the bedroom. The door is ajar, which, if he's been paying any attention to NYPD procedure at all, means he's entitled to a glance without being accused of an unlawful search. It's empty, though the bed's still unmade. He studies the disheveled sheets longer than necessary to observe that Beckett's no longer in them, then returns to the living room, where the distant thump, thump, whack now sounds more like whack, thump, smack.
He opens the front door, and follows the sound around the side of the cabin, where Kate's beating on a punching bag with an intensity most people reserve for their worst enemy. Her back's to him, earbuds evidently drowning out the sound of his approach as she assaults the heavy black canvas in a series of kicks, jabs, and right hooks, ducking as it swings wildly back at her in response to each attack. She's breathing hard, each exhalation a visible cloud of steam in the air, and every inch of her skin not covered in spandex shines with sweat. He can admit it: he stands there, staring, until he can't take it anymore; surely it isn't healthy for his heart rate to ratchet up this high this early in the morning. Clearing his throat, he eases into her line of view, though not too close. He's not sure his reflexes are up to the task.
"What'd it ever do to you?" he asks loudly.
She spins toward the sound of his voice, and he takes a small measure of satisfaction in catching her off-guard. She covers her surprise quickly with a smile. "Hey, Castle."
"Morning workout?" He's trying very hard to keep his eyes off the taut skin of her torso, but in the bright fall sunlight, she's positively gleaming.
"Kind of a habit I got into, when I was here last summer. To get back in shape."
Since he can't hide the naked admiration all over his face, he figures there's no point in pretense. "Mission accomplished, I'd say."
This time, her smile's a little less steady as she reaches down for a bottle of water and the discarded yoga tee on the ground. When she rises, she's standing close enough for him to notice the surgically precise edge of her scar running from one side of her clavicle to disappear under the fabric of her sports bra. She catches him looking at it just as he's struggling to recover from the sharp stab of pain it brings to his own chest, and her smile dies on her face.
She tugs the top over her head and drains the water bottle in one long drink. "Should we go inside?"
He offers to start breakfast while she takes a shower. He waits until he hears the water running through the pipes, then digs through the ancient, rounded fridge for the ingredients they'd bought for omelets. By the time Beckett emerges from the hallway in jeans and a sweater, toweling her wet hair, the entire cabin smells like bell peppers and onions and bacon. Maybe it can be accredited to the promise of food, but she doesn't seem to be holding a grudge.
"Forgot a blow dryer," she says.
He flips the egg in the pan, then points with the spatula in the direction of his suitcase. "I brought mine."
"You..." He can tell she's fighting a smirk. "Seriously?"
"Are my impeccable grooming habits going to be a problem for you, housemate?" When she has no answer, he adds, "That's what I thought." He opens a cupboard, searching for plates. "Grab the juice?"
"Sure but, can I have my coffee first?" He turns from his plate search to find her looking at him expectantly.
He frowns. "I thought you got the coffee."
"Why would I get the coffee?" She looks genuinely baffled. "I haven't gotten my own coffee since..." Her eyebrows knit together like she's trying to do math, and then she decides that's not the most pressing point. "Where's my coffee, Castle?"
She looks so bereft, he lets her sweat it a few seconds more, then grins, producing a bag of beans from behind the toaster. "Relax, I have it right here. As if I wouldn't keep you in coffee."She reaches for it, but he holds it at bay. "Tell me you need me," he goads.
"Castle, honestly, give me the coffee." She takes a swing, and he has a morning workout flashback. He holds the bag higher, but lifts his other hand to cover his face.
"Oh. My. God. I'm not going to punch you, Castle!"
"Tell me you need me."
"It's coffee. You're being ridiculous."
"Tell me you need me."
She edges around him, shoving a hip into his upper thigh. The move would have knocked him flat, had he not been braced against the counter. He knows it's only the two inches he has on her while she's barefooted that's allowing him to maintain the advantage, so the next time her arm comes up to swipe at the bag, he closes his free hand around her wrist and holds her there, arm extended over her head. For the second time that morning, her face registers surprise. "Too bad," he tuts. "If only you'd had coffee, your reflexes might be faster."
"The coffee. Unhand it. And me." She gives him her most threatening look, the one he's seen bring far tougher men to their knees, and yet...nah.
"Tell me you need me." She likely has half a dozen moves in her repertoire to free herself, but interestingly (or perhaps mercifully) she doesn't utilize any. She just stares him down, her hip still pressed into his, her breathing once again coming hard and fast, and finally, says... "I need your coffee."
"Oh. So close." He dangles the bag in front of her face, and when she reaches with her other hand, he snags that one, too.
"Don't make me hurt you, Castle."
"Don't make me laugh."
Instead, she does. Then, in a quick twist he doesn't see coming, she frees both her hands and spins around him, kicking his left leg out from under him and causing him to pivot a clean 90 degrees. His stomach now pressed into the counter, she locks one leg between his and catches both his hands...and the coffee...behind his back. For a long moment, she presses her full weight against him, pinning him there, before leaning in behind him to speak, still panting, into his ear. "I need you."
She lets him think about that, the length of her body pressed against his, then releases him. When he turns around, he makes a point of rubbing his wrists. "Now how about that coffee."
Somehow, he'd allowed the omelets to burn. Instead, they toast slices of bread and eat them with their coffee in the living room, where the sun warms them enough through the windows to make the fire in the grate unnecessary. Beckett drains her cup and says, "We could hike today."
"Anything other than sparring." She smiles at him. She's been doing that a lot lately, and he's noticed.
"I could teach you that move, you know." He takes her coffee mug from her hands and carries it, along with the rest of their breakfast dishes, to the sink.
"Maybe tomorrow. When I'm not so sore." She raises an eyebrow. "My pride," he clarifies. "It's been mortally wounded."
"Well, when you and your pride want to learn how to execute a defensive maneuver, you let me know."
They spend the rest of the morning walking the perimeter of the nearby lake, and even though she takes her piece, sticking it into the waistband of her jeans in a way that makes his blood run instantly hot, she's all Kate and very little Beckett. He supposes no one else would understand what he means by that, but to him, it's obvious: there's the self she presents on the job-the smart, tough, champion-of-the-victim that he likes to think he understands so well—and then there's this other self, not weaker, not softer, but somehow lighter, more hopeful and willing to take a risk. He imagines this is the Kate everyone saw, back when Johanna Beckett was still alive. He's not sure which part of her he fell in love with first, but it hardly matters: there's not one without the other, and never will be again.
She shows him all her favorite spots around the cabin, telling childhood stories along the way. With her faded jeans and her hair down—literally, she'd never bothered with the blow dryer—she's a cover girl for fresh mountain air. It strikes Castle how young she looks, and then he remembers how young she actually is—given her authority at work, he often forgets—and feels a twinge in his gut. He's never been one to pursue a significantly younger woman, though he's certainly been accused of being the type.
And then he's hit with another blow: is he? Pursuing her?
She looks over her shoulder at him at precisely that moment—pausing midway through an anecdote about a fishing mishap—and he fights the uncanny impression that she's read his thoughts. Instead she says, "I'm boring you, aren't I?" and he laughs easily. He can't imagine anything further from the truth.
They stop beside the lake where she bends to select a flat rock to skim across its surface. "It's all fodder for my tell-all: Kate Beckett, the Woman Behind the Shield," he retorts, and smiles out at the water, following her throw, as she groans.
Later, they eat sandwiches in the kitchen while Kate calls Gates on the landline (their cell phones are nothing more than paperweights out here) for an update.
"Well?" Castle asks, as she returns the clunky phone to its cradle. (Yes, an actual cradle.)
She just shakes her head. "Next time I'm calling Esposito and Ryan, see what they know."
"On the plus side, it's nice to know they're getting nowhere without us," he observes.
Clouds come in in the afternoon, and Castle pokes through the titles on the bookshelf in the living room, finding mostly Louis L'Amour westerns ("My dad's," she tells him) and more predictably, contemporary crime novels. Nothing new, though, he notes.
"I have one new one in there," she says, and he smiles at the familiar dust jacket of Heat Rises, tucked sideways on the top of the shelf. He picks it up, thumbs through it, not really seeing the pages.
"You liked it, right? It was good?" He hopes she realizes he's not asking for a literary assessment, or even fishing for a compliment. What he's really asking for is…approval, maybe?
She smiles, nodding. (Again, with the smiling!) "It was even better on Percocet." She walks over, takes the book from his hands. "I actually read it twice, since I was so loopy on the first read."
"And?"
"Better under the influence of drugs." She's reached her limit; she rolls her eyes. "You know it was the best one yet." She sets it back on the shelf, and sits on the couch across from him. "I like that Nikki turned down the job." She looks into the fire that they've revised in the grate. "I can't imagine her as a lieutenant or a captain."
Castle looks at her, instead. "I can."
She must feel his gaze, but she keeps her eyes trained on the flames. "And I liked that Nikki trusted Rook." She finally lifts her eyes. "It was about time."
He studies her until he's afraid she's going to squirm, then redirects his attention to the bookshelf, where he's discovered a storage cupboard underneath. "Yeah. They're finally partners, by Rises."
He busies himself investigating the contents of the shelf, pushing aside a battered Candyland board, silly putty, and a complete collection of Golden books before uncovering a 1980s version of Trivial Pursuit. He digs it out with a flourish, and for the next hour, he positively kicks her ass in Pop Culture (but alarmingly, barely holds his own in Arts and Literature).
They eat a dinner of steaks, wine, and instant mashed potatoes Kate finds at the back of the pantry, and Castle is just unwrapping his chocolate bars for s'mores when the sound of rain begins to ping on the roof. And then pound. They return to the fire, where he instructs her on the perfect marshmallow roasting technique while she tries to ignore him, her face in a worn copy of M is for Murder. He sets a perfectly crafted s'more on a plate by her side, and watches her eyes flick to it briefly before returning to the novel. A minute later, though, she's eating it, chocolate sticking to her fingers.
He returns his attention to his newest marshmallow, which is turning a nice golden brown against a backdrop of glowing logs. "A few years ago, Alexis would have loved this," he notes, then immediately amends his statement. "Actually, she'd love it now."
Kate answers him around a mouthful of marshmallow. "I know I'm a broken record, but she's a great kid." He nods. "I'm not sure…" She trails off, and he turns to look at her as his marshmallow catches fire and burns. "I'm not sure she's always convinced I'm that great."
He's not sure how to answer. He wants to offer a platitude, but that'd be an insult to her keen power of observation. "I think she worries about me, sometimes," he says. "She's not used to sharing me."
She gives him an 'oh, please' look. "You've been married twice since you divorced her mother." "But she always came first, before…my job. Not…" He frowns. "I don't know how to explain it. It's just different now." Different with Kate. "She notices."
They're edging into dangerous territory. Per usual, he hasn't intended to go there, but now that he's arrived, he's loath to back down. That's her M.O.
In true form, she deflects by changing the subject. Except, curiously, not really: "My therapist says I need to confront things more often."
His first thought is, therapist? but he bites that one back and instead says, "What kinds of things?"
"Memories, mostly." She's tucked her legs up on the couch, and she looks fragile, somehow, hugging her knees to her chest. He wonders how he looks to her, because he certainly feels breakable. "My mom, you know. The shooting."
His chest tightens uncomfortably. It's occurred to him—though only recently, which he accredits to his ego—that when it comes to the shooting, perhaps it's not her fear of confronting her feelings that's been holding her back. Maybe it's a fear of hurting his. The thought fills him with dread, and suddenly, he's not sure he wants to talk about this right now.
"Dr. Burke thinks—" she stops, agitated. "He thinks I'd get over those…you know, incidents, episodes, whatever…faster if I'd deal with the…things I remember."
"The PTSD."
She waves this away as if batting at an irritating fly. "I don't know, Castle. That label…it makes it seem like a big deal."
"It is a big deal." He leans forward, away from the fire and toward her. "When you're taking on a suspect, and you freeze up—" She's shaking her head, but now he's waving her away. "When you can't draw your weapon—" He breaks off, surprised at the way his voice has caught in his throat. "I just…well, I need you not to do that." He takes a breath. She's watching him carefully, poised now as though, once again, ready to run. "I need to know that when you're out there, you're doing your trademarked Detective Beckett, Wonder Woman thing"—she almost smiles—"and if that means talking through some stuff, then…you should."
When he finally shuts up, she's quiet long enough for him worry he's once again overstepped. He listens uncomfortably to the rain assaulting the windows, and then she says, "I know."
She draws a breath. "I'm not good at this, Castle, and I'm going to mess it up, but—" She squares her shoulders. "There's something I need to tell you."