Chapter 9: Night manoeuvres
Castle sneaks into the guest room and discovers the puddle of light is from the small attachment to Kate's Kindle. He'd have thought she'd like real books better – she's got enough of them in her sublet. There's enough light from the open door that he doesn't need it to prevent himself falling over something. Still. He uses it like a flashlight to check her over – not check her out, he doesn't need to do that – sling still on (amazingly), dressing still on (likewise), sleep t-shirt on – wait a moment. That's his t-shirt. He watched her borrow it but she only wanted it to use instead of his all-covering robe. At least, that's what he'd assumed. So why's she sleeping in it? Because it's yours, idiot, says a persistent little voice in his head. He finds it very difficult to believe that, but he can't think of any other reason.
He peers more closely at sound-asleep Kate, long dark lashes on unpleasantly pale cheeks, cheekbones pressing sharply through her skin. He'd thought, two nights ago, that the thin drawn look had simply been the shock of the bullet and the wound and the dislocation. He hadn't looked too closely, because he'd been too busy controlling his wayward impulses, and later he'd been nine-tenths asleep and desperate not to cuddle in. He should have realised when he'd lifted her that she was lighter than she should be. He's not that fit.
Seems she's not physically better either. Slim is one thing. Skeletal would be another, and she's nearer to the latter than the former. Looking at her now, she's stretched thin and taut: Frodo bearing the Ring, Beckett bearing the weight of her lies: as difficult to throw away as the One Ring, as like to bind her. What will she have to sacrifice, to rid herself of the curse? The crease between her eyebrows is clear, and the fine bones of her wrist exactly delineated. Even asleep, she looks exhausted.
The Lortab is out on the nightstand: only two left in the blister pack. That's for tomorrow, then. After that it'll be Tylenol. And since he's seen Kate popping Tylenol for three years, he knows that it doesn't have the same interesting side-effects as these have had. That, he thinks, is very definitely a double-edged sword. If she's not doped, then he needn't worry about her reactions not being real – or not what she would want to reveal, more likely. On the other hand, she's very unlikely to be quite so complaisant. Not complaisant at all, in fact. It's just as well he'd extracted her promise before the Lortab were done. She may be lying to him, but she won't break her word. Though he notices that the suitcase is not packed, so maybe he'd been just a little paranoid.
Anyway. Standing over her staring is not getting him anywhere. Staring is creepy, Castle. He hears Beckett's normal clear, sharp tones ring in his head. He turns out the small light on the Kindle, waits for his eyes to adjust, (falling over will not improve matters) and sets the reader quietly down where it had been left.
He really had meant to leave, then. He really had. But seventeen years of being a parent – and three of ever-increasing want-turning-to-love – switch on the automatic reaction of leaning down and planting a soft goodnight kiss on her cheek: the reflexive, habitual night-time benediction which heals troubles and protects the sleeper from the monsters under the bed. (Alexis had had a book, he remembers. Jitterbug Jam, where the monsters were scared of the people.)
She shifts, restlessly, and for a terrified, frozen second he thinks she's waking as her eyelashes flutter, but then she settles again.
"Do 't 'gain, Cas'le," she slurs in her sleep. One should never refuse a lady. Especially when one doesn't want to. So he does, still softly, and in her sleep her arm comes around his neck to try to pull him down and in. It costs him dearly, to detach her, and himself: not to kneel by the bed and stay in her arm, but to leave; not to give in to his desire to strip and wash here, and slide in beside her, and hold her close and never let her go.
In his lexicon of truly bad ideas, that last idea is right up there. It's too soon, and too raw, and he's too near to the summer's pain and she's too near to broken. He exits, rapidly and silently.
When Beckett wakes the loft is silent, and when she looks at the time it's almost nine. She can't remember the last time she slept that long. She does remember that downstairs there is a bath, and that Castle's made her free of it. When she goes down she finds that there is coffee again, with a short note to the effect that Castle will bring her lunch back with him, that he isn't having her scalding herself on his watch by trying to make coffee herself, and a rather more sarcastic comment that she's never managed to make his machine work with two hands so she shouldn't try with just one, which makes her grin. She takes the coffee to Castle's bathroom and turns on the taps. Then she notices the bottle of bubble bath – clearly sourced from Alexis – on the side, adds a generous splurge – and then sits down and tries not to burst into tears.
It's one demonstration of care and generosity too many. She doesn't deserve this. It's all too much – he's opened his home to her again, and this time she knows that it's because he's opened his heart too. It's overwhelming her. She'd leave, pack and go home and hide away, except she's promised not to. And even if she hadn't, Castle's sicced Gates on her once already and she is perfectly certain that he'll do it again if he feels he ought to.
She sits in the bath and ponders. Unblanketed by the painkillers, she knows what she should do. She should talk to Castle: tell him the truth. She simply doesn't want to, because she doesn't want to watch her life go down the toilet the moment she confesses her lie.
Though how would that be worse than it is now? She's constantly guarding her words around Castle, advance-proofing every sentence in her head so that she doesn't reveal the truth or doesn't damage the heart he'd like to wear on his sleeve; constantly spooking at the flashes of light or the sharp movements around her, which is not improving at all from the first time she came back; hiding her thoughts and reactions from Ryan and Esposito so that they don't see just how ill-equipped she currently is to do her job. Her life is already in the toilet.
It's just that at least now she gets to see Castle each day and he's there to (unknowingly, on his part) get her through each day. She doesn't know how she'd cope without that. She's got used to him being around, and although she frequently wishes she'd never used the ghastly, junior-high-school kid comment about pulling her pigtails, (had she been on something that day? She must have been) she depends upon him being there, right now, to anchor her to a better reality than the black hole of the rest of her life.
Maybe if she wasn't so otherwise troubled it wouldn't be such a big deal that she needs him around. If it wasn't for all the other problems she might be able to deal with this one – or at least deal with the fallout afterwards. But here and now she can't deal with everything. She can't actually deal with anything. So she's sitting here in this cooling, no longer bubbly bath, looking at the shrapnel of her life falling around her and trying to think of any excuse at all which means she gets to keep Castle around.
Eventually she gets out, goes and dresses in her own clothes, takes the last of the Lortab and hopes simultaneously and completely inconsistently for Castle not to come back for some time and for him to come back right now.
After a while, and most of the coffee, reading in the family room begins to pall, and the Lortab have had their effect of distancing her slightly from her reality. Beckett, however, doesn't feel any happier. She remembers that she had liked the comfort of Castle's bed, and buoyed up on the Lortab on an empty stomach she thinks that she'll just borrow it to read. Only for a few minutes. Lots of undoubtedly soft pillows to lean on, a comforting scent of Castle, and he won't mind because after all he'd put her in it to sleep. But she won't still be there when he gets back. She'll only take a little time and then she'll go back to the main room and the couch. Just long enough to cheer her up. It'll be as good as the real thing. Nearly.
Castle has had an idea on the way to Black Pawn, and being Castle acts upon it as soon as it's floated into his head. His idea is that he should see Esposito, and rather quietly discuss whether the symptoms he, Castle, thinks he sees are matched by the ones Esposito sees. A couple of texts later arrangements have been made to meet around noon. Conveniently, Ryan is not available. Esposito merely refers to that as whipped. That's rather helpful. Castle and Esposito long ago reached an accommodation of views about Kate, tacitly agreeing that it needed both of them to keep her out of trouble. They've never seen the need to discuss that further – especially not with Kate. They don't need to discuss it with Ryan: he'll just go along with them. But… Ryan's never been able to keep a secret from Kate, and Castle very definitely does not want her finding out about this right now. Nor will Esposito. He's in enough trouble already after Castle roped him into the Gates affair.
Black Pawn is tedious. Gina is tedious and irritated. Paula is… Paula, and irritating. And the designer is an absolute pain, Castle decides. In fact, the designer should be dropped in the crocodile pool at the Zoo. If there isn't a crocodile pool at the Zoo, one should be built, specifically to drop this idiot into. Castle doesn't want a new look. He wants a consistent look that sells his books. Series should look the same. It's tidy on the shelves. It also lets people spot them easily, and therefore they're more likely to buy them. Is that so hard for everyone to understand? Castle's only too glad when it's all over and he's got his own way so he can amble off to meet Esposito.
Esposito is late, which is unusual. It turns out that with Beckett (precinct business, so Castle amends his thoughts to be Beckett-referenced, not Kate) away Gates is even more irritable than usual.
"Short-handed, so the paperwork's backing up. Makes her worse. Her own fault. She shouldn't have barred Beckett." And there's the opening.
"You think not?" Esposito glances sharply at Castle.
"You agree with Gates." It's not a question at all. "What's on your mind, bro?" And swift upon the heels of that statement, "What's wrong with Beckett?" This time floats between them.
"You tell me. I've seen you watching when she can't spot you. What d'you think's wrong, Espo?"
Espo leans forward, drops his voice, as if Beckett might at any moment turn up and overhear him.
"I think she ain't recovered. You know I told you 'bout the diner an' the backfire, after my last tour?" Castle nods. He remembers. "She looks like I felt. She's wired up." Castle nods again.
"Yeah, Espo. We went to Ellis Island yesterday – I thought a trip might take Beckett's mind off her shoulder and the sling and killing me for siccing Gates on her." He digresses momentarily. "She's not exactly keen on the sling. Has she ever had one before?" Espo considers.
"Nah. Then again, Montgomery would have let her hang around and do paperwork, sling or not. Gates just benched her again. 'S not surprising Beckett's a bit upset." He stops, throws another sharp, interrogative stare across the table. "What happened? You don't sound like it was a happy picnic day."
"Beckett kept startling. Light flashes, sudden movements nearby, anything unexpected, really. It wasn't obvious, but she never stopped looking around." Esposito turns the stare up a notch to approach a glare.
"What'cha thinking, Castle? You got thoughts an' I got thoughts. Do we got the same thoughts? 'Cause my thoughts tell me Beckett ain't right. My thoughts tell me Beckett's got PTSD, an' she's hiding it."
"We've got the same thoughts, then. The painkillers seemed to help, but they run out today, and she can't rely on them." He grins, digressing again. "They're damn good drugs, though. She hasn't threatened to kill me once." Esposito raises amazed eyebrows. "Hey, Espo, do you think we should get some and spike Gates' coffee?" Espo almost looks attracted by the idea, but then gets serious again.
"You think Beckett shouldn't be on the job," he says, almost threateningly. "Why?"
"She's not right, Espo."
"So? Bein' somewhere she knows'll help."
"She's getting more stressed every day and you know it. I've seen you looking at her and worrying."
"She'll get past it. 'S not as if she remembers. She just needs a bit of time."
Esposito trails off at Castle's enquiring look. "You think she does remember," he says blankly. That's not a question, either. Fast, flickering thoughts rip across Espo's face. "Helluva thing, rememberin' bein' shot. Could leave a lotta stuff behind." Castle waits for the other shoe to drop. "Hang on. She said she didn't remember anythin'. Why'd she wanna say that if she did?" Castle shrugs. Espo carries on around mouthfuls of his lunch.
"Maybe she thought she wouldn't be let back for much longer if she let on." He thinks. "Nah. Can't be right. She'd still have to pass psych, an' prob'ly get counselling." He thinks for a while longer, as Castle addresses himself to his own lunch. "Dunno," he concludes, munching thoughtfully. "You sure?"
"Not sure. Pretty sure, though. Seems most likely." It's Esposito's turn to shrug.
"You're the one who" – he chokes, takes a second to recover, and alters what he was about to say – "observes her." He glances at his watch. "Gotta go."
Well, that didn't really help anything. Except that Esposito agrees about the PTSD. No more insight than when he began the day. Espo clearly had a hard time swallowing the idea that Beckett would pretend not to remember. Could he be wrong? But he really doesn't think that he is.
He remembers to pick up lunch for Kate: favourite sandwich, can of soda, fruit. And a bear claw, even though it isn't for breakfast. If even Esposito, who knows Beckett better than anyone except him, can't think of a reason for her to pretend to forget everything, then there's a really deep reason. There must be a really deep reason, because now he knows that she has feelings for him. Maybe a little display of practical affection will help to elicit it. He hopes she liked the practical tokens of affection he'd left her.
When he gets home Kate's not in view, oddly. Castle puts her lunch down and investigates the couch, (in case she's out of sight and suddenly deprived of voice to greet him) then upstairs, peeping into the guest room, and finally his study. She's not in any of these places. Worry niggles at his brain. He'd made her promise. She doesn't break promises – does she? He goes back upstairs. Suitcase still there. Toiletries still there. Ergo, Kate still there. The question is, where?
He takes himself back into his study and opens his laptop, intending to do some work to distract himself, or alternatively mess around and play games and surf the net and procrastinate while waiting for inspiration to arrive, and indeed he manages to do so for several minutes. About that point he realises that there is breathing coming from his bedroom. After a brief panic he realises that since the outer door was firmly locked when he came in, he's found his missing Kate. He peeks round the bedroom door rather cautiously.
Her back is to the door and she's half buried in pillows. Disappointingly, she's also fully clothed. Still, she'd been fully clothed last night and it hadn't exactly helped his self-control. It's not helping now. He swallows hard.
"Kate?"
That was a mistake. She slams to sitting upright and whips round and it's absolutely clear that she's just wrenched her arm. Mainly because she is swearing vilely and sheet white. She manages to stop that, though not before Castle's taken the few steps necessary to reach her.
"Castle?"
"Hm?"
"You're back already? That was qui… Oh." She's just seen the clock. "It's later than I thought." She's going a very fetching shade of pink, which is better than the white of a second ago. In fact, she's thoroughly embarrassed. It's very cute. Saying that will certainly get him into trouble. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be in here."
Castle resists – with the aid of clamping his teeth together – the strong desire to say No, you should definitely be in here, just not with all your clothes on, and smiles. From the confused expression on Kate's face, it's not a happy, friendly smile. The way she's staring at him, he might as well be a starving lion. It dawns on him that his smile probably doesn't have much to do with friendly comfort and affection and probably does have a great deal to do with his predatory desire simply to kiss hell out her and then extract all of the truth.
She's still wincing, and her face is back to white, as she carefully swings her feet to the floor in front of Castle. It's clear she's going to stand up. Castle's overly developed sense of helpfulness, aided and abetted by his overly developed sense that Kate should be within his arms, leads him to put both hands round her waist (which is indeed frighteningly slim) and stand her up. It might have helped if he hadn't been helpful. It might have helped if he'd let go once she was upright. It might have helped if she hadn't looked up in surprise with her mouth open on an exclamation.
It would certainly have helped if his good intentions hadn't flown out the window and he hadn't kissed her.
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