Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
When Kate had been shot, 549 days ago—he knows exactly how long it has been, and wonders if he will ever stop counting—he'd experienced everything in slow motion. He'd noticed the sun glancing off the barrel of the sniper's rifle and seen her spasm at the impact of the bullet. He'd knocked her to the ground and watched the blood ooze from her body, cradled her in his arms while her eyes had flickered shut. He'd read later that when you suffer a trauma like that, when you're suddenly faced with terror, everything seems to happen at half-speed. It's because the part of your brain that's responding to fear is highly active, storing so many memories that time appears to slow to accommodate them.
That's what's happening now. Her words are slicing into him like a knife, but they're also stretching out like warm tar. "It willllll beeee tooooo muccchhh, and that willlll beeee the ennnddddd." Too much? No. The end? No. Why is she talking like this?
"Kate," he says, rushing to her side of the table and folding her in a hug. "Kate, Kate, Kate. You will never drag me down so far that I can't bring you back up. Buoy you up. If I have to be your metaphorical life jacket once in a while, that's fine with me."
That's what brings on the tears, and she weeps against his chest. He rocks her the way he used to rock Alexis, and kisses her hair.
Finally she has enough control to speak, her breath soft on his skin. "I can't have you unhappy, Castle."
"I'm not unhappy."
"You are. Over not seeing Alexis."
"I'll get over it, Kate. It's not your problem."
"Maybe it is. Maybe it's my fault."
He draws back so that he can see her properly. "That's ridiculous."
"Not."
"How could it possibly be your fault?"
"I'm around all the time. With you. Work, home." She swallows hard. "Maybe she's a little threatened."
"You know what I think? I think that you're exhausted and had too much to drink and are worrying way too much."
"But—"
"No buts. I also think you need some ice cream."
"That's what you say to Alexis when she's upset."
"True, but it's also what I say to myself when I'm upset."
She directs her eyes to the third button of his shirt, which is peeking out from the vee of his sweater. "Don't have any ice cream, Castle."
"That's what you think. I came here for every eventuality, you know. Like sickness brought on by ice-cream deficiency. I put a quart of Swiss almond vanilla in your freezer an hour ago."
She's too tired to argue or talk any more. " 'kay. Sounds good."
"Atta girl. I'll get us each a bowl."
"Don't make my helping the size of my head, Castle."
"Right, right," he answers over his shoulder as he retrieves the ice cream.
"And no accoutrements."
"Accoutrements?"
"You know. Whipped cream, dried cherries, cookie crumbs, marshmallow fluff, sardines."
"I put sardines on only one time," he insists, holding up his index finger. "One time. And only because you kept singing 'Bigger Fish to Fry' when we'ed been in that awful Country-Western bar that night."
"Fine. But leave my ice cream unadulterated this time, please."
"Okay, but you'll be jealous when you see mine."
Oh, shit, why did he have to say jealous? She's not jealous, but Alexis is.
"You look like you need to be somewhere comfier," he says, holding their dessert. "Let's eat on the sofa."
Once they're both sitting she looks dubiously at his dessert. "What's that acid-green river around your ice cream?"
He takes a large spoonful, eats it, and smacks his lips. "Crème de menthe."
"You must be kidding."
"Nope. I found the bottle on the top shelf of your cupboard. It might have belonged to the previous occupant, since it doesn't seem like your style. But the alcohol, you know? I figured it was still safe to use. And the mint goes with the chocolate. It's surprisingly good."
"Sometimes I wonder about your digestive system."
"Titanium," he says, slapping his stomach.
"Mmhmm."
He's chasing the last chocolate-covered almond around the bottom of the bowl when he feels her slump against his shoulder. She's sound asleep. Very carefully he places his bowl on the coffee table before wrapping his arm around her. Maybe he shouldn't have changed the subject. Maybe he should have let her talk it out. Something is obviously deeply upsetting her, but he couldn't stand seeing her cry. Is it old insecurities? Maybe. A little. But she also seems concerned that Alexis is what, jealous? Jealous of her? It's crazy. Alexis is 18. Almost an adult. In many ways she already is an adult. Old enough to vote, which she has done. Old enough to enlist in the Army, which, fortunately, she hasn't done. He sits for a long time, letting his mind wander, and eventually gives Kate a little shake.
"Beckett? Kate? Want to go to bed?"
When she doesn't answer or even move, he stretches her out on the sofa before walking to her bedroom to get a quilt. He drapes it over her, and kisses her on the cheekbone. After loading her dishwasher and wiping the counters, he checks on her again. Since she hasn't stirred he gets a pad of paper and pen from her desk, writes her a short note, and props it up on the coffee table. Then he tiptoes to the door, fetches his coat, turns off the lights, and leaves.
The light makes her squint. How can it be sunny in here when it's the middle of the night? She closes her eyes again and runs her tongue across her teeth. A platoon from the Crimean War is apparently marching around in her mouth, and somewhere in the back of her skull a drill sergeant is shouting orders. She groans and opens one eye. Oh. She's on the sofa, and it's not the middle of the night, after all. She pulls her left hand out from under her head and checks her watch. 7:20. Presumably a.m., since it's daylight. Still face down, she looks at the coffee table next to her, and sees a piece of paper with the handwriting that often makes her weak-kneed. "Good thing I'm not standing up," she mumbles as she reaches for the note.
Dear Sleeping Beauty,
I guess I'm not Prince Charming since I couldn't wake you, so I covered you with a poor substitute for an ermine robe and went home. One of my mother's old summer-stock friends is in town from Cleveland, and I'm taking them to brunch. See you in the afternoon? I'll be more than desperate for your company by then.
xo Castle
She sits up and puts her head in her hands. Since she's in need of coffee, very strong coffee, in large quantities, she forces herself to move to the kitchen and get a pot going. While the coffee's brewing, she stands in the full force of her shower. "I need to make a plan," she says while bubbles of shampoo run down her back. "I really, really need a plan."
An hour and two mugs of coffee later she's still in her robe, but she does have a plan. She texts Gates and asks if it would be all right to call her about something that's both personal and work-related. She and the Captain are getting along better, each having growing—if not always expressed—respect for the other, and Kate's pleased when her phone rings almost immediately.
"Good morning, Sir."
"Good morning, Detective. I hope nothing's wrong."
"No, sir. It's. Well, I need to take a little time off, if possible. I have twelve days coming, but I just need a week."
"I don't want to pry, but you're not ill, are you?"
Not unless you count sick at heart, she thinks. "No, but I need to get away for a bit."
"Uh-huh. And when did you want to get away?"
"Monday, Sir. I'd be back the following Monday."
"Just a moment."
She hears rustling, as if Gates were looking through a notebook, which might well be the case.
"I've checked the rosters, Beckett, and think we can do without you for a week." She pauses. "And what about your...partner?"
"My partner?"
"Mister Castle. Will he be getting away?"
Oh, fuck, does she know about them? "No, sir, definitely not. This is about me. Me taking time off. I'm sure he'll still come in. To work. At the precinct."
"Uh huh."
"I'm sure he's available to help Ryan and Esposito." She clears her throat. "One other thing, Captain Gates? I wonder if we could keep this between you and me? I know the guys will ask, but if you could just say I've gone on vacation for a week I'd really appreciate it."
There's another pause before Gates speaks again. "That's not a problem."
"Thank you, sir."
"And Kate? Take care of yourself."
The Captain ends the call before she can thank her, though not before she notices, with considerable surprise, that Gates had called her by her first name. She stands still for a minute, then puts her mug in the dishwasher, washes out the coffeepot, and turns to her bedroom to get dressed.
A lot of her clothes, books, and bits of paraphernalia—an umbrella, some jewelry, an embroidered pillow—have somehow migrated to Castle's loft, but she still has a lot of things here in her apartment. She rolls a suitcase from the closet and packs it quickly with warm, casual clothes. From her safe in the same closet she takes an envelope of cash and a burner phone, as well as a credit card and a driver's license with her photo but issued to one Caroline Hill, DOB 05/16/79. She'd set up a secret, alternate identity as a precaution three months after she'd been shot, and chosen the day of the shooting, May 16, as Caroline's birthday.
With her bag packed and the apartment straightened up, she has only two things left to do. First, she turns on her new phone, and goes online for a quarter of an hour. Second, she sits at her desk, writes a short letter on her pale blue stationery and tucks into her purse. At the door she takes one slow look around, goes downstairs, and hails a cab.
"LaGuardia, please," she says to the driver, "but I have to stop for a moment at the corner of Crosby and Broome to drop something off. Would you wait for me?"
"Sure."
It's still early enough that the hordes of SoHo shoppers haven't descended, and they make good time. The cab pulls up outside Castle's building, and she ducks in. "Good morning, Stanley," she says to the doorman.
"Good morning."
"This is for Rick," she says, handing him the envelope. "He's taking his mother out to brunch and if you could give it to him when he comes back, not now, that would be great."
"Will do. My pleasure."
"Thanks a million. I gotta run. Have a good day."
"You, too, Detective."
When she's back in the taxi, she shuts her eyes, willing herself not to look back.
Castle ushers his mother and her friend, Sally, into the buzzing restaurant on Prince Street. He hadn't been looking forward to brunch, but in fact it's hilarious. Once they've ordered, he just sits back and revels in two old pros swapping tales of the theater—and in his mother's case, at least, probably every outlandish word is true. He'd happily have paid twice what he does, and it isn't cheap. Martha and Sally are going to a matinee, so he has his car service drive them there and he chooses to walk home. It's a dull November day, but the air feels good. He slips the phone out of his pocket and calls Kate, but gets her voicemail.
"I'm sprung," he says. "Call me back when you get this."
It's only another five or six minutes before he walks into his lobby, still without hearing from Kate, and the doorman hands him an envelope.
"Detective Beckett left this for you."
And suddenly he feels very, very cold. "Oh. Thank you. When was that? Just now?"
"No, I'd say, maybe ten? Around ten this morning? She asked me not to call up, to give it to you when you came back from your brunch."
"Fine, that's fine, Stanley. Thank you." He smiles until he's safely inside the elevator, and then he's not smiling at all. He's terrified. The envelope trembles a little in his grip, which is less a grip than a feeble pinching together of his thumb and finger.
Inside the quiet loft, he hangs up his coat and walks to his office, dropping heavily into his chair. His silent phone is in his pocket, and the envelope remains unopened on top of his desk. He wonders if he looks at it long enough that it will burst into flames. It doesn't. Finally he picks it up and opens the flap. He races through it the first time, so relieved that it's not a Dear John letter that he hardly understands what else she has written. He flattens the paper carefully and reads it again, and then again.
Dear Castle,
I'm sure that you'll think I'm a coward for writing instead of speaking to you in person, but I can't right now because I know that you'll try to talk me out of this. I'm going away for a little bit, by myself. Please don't come after me; I need you to stay here. I need you to spend time with Alexis and let her know that she's the most important thing in your life.
Please don't worry about me. All you need to know about me is that I love you.
Kate
"What the hell?" he asks the empty room. "What the hell?"
TBC
