Passions Past
Chapter Seven
By Dana Keylits
A/N: The character of Bette Porter was created by Ilene Chaiken and I am simply borrowing her for my own selfish purposes.
"How do you know he was angry?" Lanie asked, sucking on the grape she'd just picked off of Kate's plate.
"I know angry sex when I have it, Lanie." Kate rolled her eyes.
"So, he just left?"
"Yep. He just left," she replied, waving her hand in the air for dramatic effect, then reached for the bottle of Pinot Noir from the countertop, refilling her glass.
She held the bottle up, gesturing to Lanie, who shook her head, her glass still half full.
"And you explained it to him? Why the picture was there?"
"Yes, Lanie, I told you. I explained it to him. And, he seemed to accept my explanation, but then he said he needed to go home!"
"At two in the morning."
"Yes!" She exclaimed, raising the goblet to her lips, grateful for the sedating effects of the crimson liquid. "At two in the frickin morning!"
"That's not good," Lanie whispered.
Kate looked up, her eyebrows raised "Ya think?" Her shoulders slumped, "And then," She gestured with her wine glass, "...he said he needed the whole day today to write. We haven't seen each other in eight days because of his book tour, and the one day I have off in the next week, and he suddenly needs to write?"
"I'm so sorry, Kate." Lanie reached over and touched her elbow. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know." Her throat suddenly constricting, unbidden tears rimming her eyes, "What can I do? I don't even know why I'm letting this be an issue."
She picked up her glass and wandered into the living room, shaking her head. Lanie followed her. She did not want to cry, She just, desperately, wanted to make this better. She didn't even know where to begin, how to begin.
She dropped onto the couch, feeling deflated and resigned, reaching behind her to toss the accent pillow onto the floor, irritated. She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, and let loose a long, tortured sigh.
"God. This is so fucked up." Her eyes salty with tears, she searched Lanie's face for comfort. "How can I possibly make this better, if I don't even understand why I'm feeling the way I am?"
The two friends just stared at each other, the charged air swirling around them, filling up the corners and spaces with Kate's nervous, remorseful energy.
"Kate." Lanie started, cautiously. "I'm going to ask you a question."
The lines that formed between Kate's eyes betrayed her understanding that this was, in all likelihood, going to be a doozy of a question.
"And, don't be offended. And don't answer right away, okay? Think about it." Lanie inched closer to her friend on the couch.
"Okay," Kate replied, "go ahead."
She took a deep breath. "Is it possible, at all possible, that the reason you are having so much trouble putting this behind you, is because you don't want it behind you?"
Kate flinched, tucking her chin into her neck. "What?"
She held her palms out. "I'm just saying that maybe, maybe even unconsciously, you want her."
Kate opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. But nothing came out.
Lanie set a gentle hand on Kate's knee. "Think about it, Kate. And be honest with yourself. Maybe this is so hard because," She paused, "...because what you really want is to have sex with Bette Porter?"
Kate shook her head, unable to fathom what Lanie was suggesting. "I would never do that to him, Lanie. I would never cheat on him."
Lanie nodded. "I'm not saying you would. But I am saying that you might want to. That some part of you, even a small part of you, might be considering it."
Kate felt sick, like she might actually vomit right then and there. She leaned forward, her hand over her mouth while a large, red, brick filled the empty spaces in her stomach. Tears streamed in a jagged line down her cheeks as she stared at Lanie, who may as well have just reached across the expanse between them and slapped her across the face; it would have hurt less.
Castle paced. He didn't know what else to do. He wasn't going to cry, he wasn't going to throw things, and he certainly wasn't going to talk about it with his mother.
Imagine! Mother, guess what? Kate had a lesbian affair in college with a woman who conveniently now lives in New York, and who conveniently happened to be at the same gala we were at last night. Oh, and by the way, I'm pretty sure Kate is now fantasizing about her while we have sex, and masturbating to a picture of them together when she's alone!
No, he wasn't going to have that conversation.
So instead, he paced, angrily, frustratingly, agonizingly, he paced. Back and forth, back and forth in front of the long windows of his loft. His empty loft that was growing emptier by the minute.
His mind drifted back to the previous night. To the passionate, mind-blowing, fearless lovemaking they'd had. He'd felt so intrepid, so liberated, she was always so willing to try anything, to go anywhere, to satisfy any itch. He loved that about her, about them. And, It had been that way from the first night they were together.
So you liked it? She'd asked, her hair adorably tousled, her breasts peeking through the oversized dress shirt she'd thrown on.
Yeah.
Even the part where I...?
Especially that part, I loved that part.
And, since that day, there had been nothing but those parts in their lovemaking. It exhilarated him, excited and aroused him, and, last night had been no different. Until.
Until his eyes had stumbled across the picture on her bedside table and his mind conjured up images of her naked, aroused, alone in her bed, pleasuring herself while staring at the face of her ex lover. He'd felt his cheeks go hot, embarrassment, anger, confusion had welled up within him and he'd gotten aggressive, demanding something of her that he didn't have to demand. That she had already given him willingly.
You're such an asshole!
Maybe, and, It's true, he was assuming a lot, and she had denied it when he'd asked her.
Be honest, Rick. You didn't ask her. You accused her. There's a difference.
But what else was he supposed to think when he saw the picture of Bette on Kate's nightstand? Why else would it be there?
Kate had tried to explain it away, telling him some lame story about how she was going to pack it away in her keepsakes box but Lanie had come over and she'd left it on the bedside table. She'd said she'd completely forgotten about it, until, after they'd made love when he'd shown it to her.
You threw it at her!
Whatever. It wasn't so unreasonable for him to be pissed off. She'd even admitted she was having "weird" feelings about Bette. That, in and of itself, was reason enough for him to be worried, wasn't it?
Worried, yes. Judgmental and an ass? No.
He stopped pacing. A worry line masking his normally handsome features, his breath hitching in his throat, a score of butterflies taking flight in his stomach. He stared, wide-eyed, straight ahead as a horrifying, paralyzing thought skittered across his brain.
Was she having an affair?!
No! Jeez! No!
But, what if she was having an affair?
She's NOT having an affair, and you know it, jackass!
He took a calming breath, trying to temper the panic, rising like steam, within him, combing his fingers anxiously through his hair, his shoulders slumping, he realized that he did know it. In spite of the insecurity seizing his body, wreaking havoc with his temporarily addled mind, he still trusted her. He still believed in her. Still believed in them.
As he crossed to the drink cart in his dining room, refilling his scotch and water, he desperately wished that this whole thing had never even started in the first place. That he had never heard the name Bette Porter, that he'd never learned of Kate's sapphic dalliance with the woman, or the fondness with which she now remembered that time.
What he thought would be an innocent, playful, provocative question had inexplicably snowballed into a nightmare.
Well, you're the one who pulled on that thread, genius.
"I know!" he growled to no one in particular.
"Fuck!"
"God, Lanie! No!" Kate raked her fingers through her hair in disgust. "Why would you even think that?"
Lanie held up both hands in surrender. "I'm being your friend, Kate Beckett."
She softened, her body relaxing. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Look, I had to ask. You're the one who said it's time to get real. No more half truths, no more subtext with him. Remember?"
She nodded, "I remember."
"So. If it isn't that you're still attracted to her, or want to have sex with her. Then, what is it?"
Kate shook her head, looking at Lanie with narrowed eyes. "I'm not sure."
She glanced sideways at her friend, "But, you have a theory."
Kate chewed on her thumbnail. "It's not fleshed out."
Lanie stood up and crossed to the kitchen, bringing the wine bottle back to the couch with her and filling both goblets.
"Then let's flesh it out."
He had to go to her.
As his rage had settled, shuffling slowly off of him, gathering like a dusty pile at his feet, exposing the open corners of his logical mind, he could see how petty, how unwilling to trust, he'd truly been.
Not to mention he'd been a cold-hearted ass. He winced, now, as he thought about how he'd left her. She'd tried to stand in his way, her eyes big and round, glazed with tears, she'd pleaded for him to stop, to listen, the sheet clutched in her hands as it wrapped around her naked body. But he had been too hurt, too blinded by the fragile workings of his ego, to even notice her pain. What kind of a man does that?
He was haunted by the memory of her face, by the hurt and confusion that masked her delicate features, the soft whimper he'd heard as he'd slammed the door behind him.
God, why had he been such a childish prick!? What the hell was he thinking? That's not even who he was anymore. He desperately wished he could take it all back. Take back every hurtful word, every mean gesture, every dismissal of her explanations.
He had to find her, to beg for her forgiveness, to listen to her, really and truly listen, and not make pedantic, ego generated, assumptions. She had always been truthful with him in the past...
Well, except for that little matter of when she'd lied to you for an entire year about knowing that you loved her.
Well, yes, except for that. But, that was different. That was a specific event, a specific time and circumstance, and they weren't together together yet, and she was still healing from everything that had happened that year. He could forgive her that, just as she had forgiven him for lying to her about Mr. Smith.
Besides, they'd changed that dynamic. Moved forward, improved their communication. Or, at least, he thought they had.
Time to find out, he mused as he grabbed his phone and keys and marched determinedly out the door.
"Well, it makes sense to me, Kate." Lanie said, draining her glass.
"It does?"
"Yes, of course. Don't you think so?"
Kate nodded. Of course it did. But why hadn't she gotten there sooner? Why hadn't she figured all of this out before? It could have saved them both from this unnecessary, gut wrenching, broken-hearted agony that she'd so flippantly put them through.
She had to go to him. Find him, apologize to him for making him worry about her intentions, about her desires, her needs. God, of course he'd stormed off last night. He was hurt, and confused, and she wasn't helping any with her "it's weird" subterfuge.
She knew better than that now, and, she needed to go do better. She had to fix it. She had to make him understand. Make him believe. She didn't know how, she didn't even know if she could. But she sure as hell wasn't going to give up without a fight.
"I have to go find him, Lanie."
Lanie smiled, getting up off the couch. "Of course you do." She crossed her fingers and held them in front of her face. "Good luck!"
They hugged.
"What, no kiss?" Lanie teased.
Kate made a face.
"Too soon? Okay, I'll see you later." Lanie giggled, floating out the door.
He bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time, not wanting to wait for the elevator. He had to get to her, had to get to her now. He had been kicking himself the entire way over, his heart pounding, hurting and broken with the overwhelming regret over the way he'd treated her.
His forehead shiny with sweat, his body doubled over from lack of oxygen, he paused in front of her door. What if she slammed it in his face? What if she couldn't forgive him? What if, by his actions, he'd forced her right into the arms of Bette Porter?
He didn't have a plan, but he had to try.
He raised his fist to knock on the door.
Kate holstered her gun, teased her badge onto her belt, gathered her keys, phone and wallet, and balanced them by the door as she grabbed her blue trench coat from the front closet and threw it over her shoulders. Turning off the lights, save the one light above the kitchen sink, making sure all of the candles had been blown out, she gathered her stuff and turned the knob on the door.
She jumped. "Castle!"
He stood there, looking surprised, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, panting and out of breath, his fist poised in the air as though about to knock.
"I was just on my way to come find you." She explained, stepping aside as he quickly crossed the threshold into her apartment.
They squared themselves to each other, their eyes shiny and blazing.
"I'm sorry," They said, simultaneously.
"You're sorry?" They asked, simultaneously,
They laughed.
He grabbed her tepidly by the shoulders. "Kate." He pulled her to him, framing her face with his hands, and kissed her, softly, gently, quickly. He leaned his forehead against hers. "I am profoundly sorry for being such an ass last night." His face a mask of pain and regret, his eyes misty, a sob trapped in his throat.
She reached up and fanned her fingers along his cheeks, her thumbs tracing his lips, her own eyes rimming with tears. She kissed him. Long, slow, tender. No tongue. Just her lips on his, the wet tears blanketing her cheeks mixing with his. "I'm sorry, too, Castle. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
They breathed into each other, their bodies tilted and humming, the weight, the pain, the heaviness of the past twenty-four hours shedding from them like the molted feathers of a phoenix. She curled her arms around his neck as he wrapped his around her waist, filling all of the spaces between them.
They held on for dear life.
They stood there like that, for what felt like hours, in the front hallway of her apartment, holding each other, breathing, sobbing, forgiving. Healing. With their lips, their hands, their life's breath, they soothed each other, silently asked for and offered forgiveness, understanding, compassion, love. They didn't want to move, or speak, or do anything that would break the restorative spell of which they were casting upon each other. And, the longer they held each other, speaking with their bodies, their breath, their lips, the lighter, more translucent, the air around them became.
And they laughed, simultaneously. They laughed the laughter of a prisoner who'd just been released, or a kid on the last day of school. It was laughter of relief, release, joy, liberation. And, although they had much left to say with words, they had already spoken volumes with just their bodies, their eyes, their warm, soft, forgiving lips on each other.
And, they knew, they knew that no matter what was going to be spoken tonight, no matter what was going to come their way tomorrow, they would be okay.
She took his hand in hers and led him into the apartment.
"Can you stay the night?" She'd asked, tentatively.
"Yes." He replied, "yes, I'd like that."
She nodded, smiling. "C'mon," towing him into the bedroom, "let's talk."
A dark sedan sat parked, idling, outside of Kate's apartment, mysterious, black eyes watching the front door in dismay.
She had wanted to go up and see her, just to talk, she'd told herself. So, she'd sat in the car, gathering the courage to go knock on the door, but just as she'd cut the engine and opened the car door, Richard Castle had come running up the sidewalk.
"Shit!" She'd slammed the car door shut and started the engine. Staring daggers at the mystery writer as he'd bounded up the front steps of Kate's building. She'd revved the engine a little too forcefully in her frustration.
So now, she had to decide if she was going to wait him out, which seemed ridiculous because he was probably tucked in for the night, or come back another day.
Deciding on the latter, Bette Porter put the car into drive and pulled away from the curb with an exasperated squeal of her tires.
"I'll be back, Kate."
A/N: This isn't the end. One more chapter to come, and don't worry, I know you've come to expect it so I will do my best to bring the heat back to the next chapter! Thank you to all of you who have stuck with this bumpy ride, I hope it was worth it! I have certainly had a blast!