The cafe was still relatively quiet, but it would start to fill up for the lunchtime rush soon. They were shown to a table in the front corner at the window. It held a solitary pink flower in a tiny vase, and the salt and pepper shakers were two little ceramic people, fitted together in a hug.
Beckett saw Castle noticing the objects, and once they'd ordered coffee to start and the waitress had walked away again, he took his phone from his pocket and quickly snapped a photo. He looked up at her and she raised an eyebrow in a silent question, then he shrugged.
"It's a good detail," he said, slightly apologetically. "I can use it."
Richard Castle, she thought, sitting down in her chair a little more heavily than she intended. It was so easy to forget that he wasn't just Castle from the precinct, and from the loft, and Alexis' father, and Martha's son. Her partner, her friend, her staunch companion and tireless supporter. Her childlike jester and ardent suitor, all in one. But he was also the Richard Castle. Bestselling novelist. Creator of Derrick Storm.
And Nikki Heat.
He'd written all the books that had been her comfort — and maybe even her salvation — after her mother died, and then he'd created a character based on her, and dedicated those books to her, and fallen in love with her, and told her so.
And she had pushed him away, and lied to him, and he'd found out and it had obviously crushed him, and now here he was, after sending her away and out of his life so he could recover, but his face was thinner and his jaw was covered in stubble, and he wasn't sleeping well, and he looked utterly lost and broken.
Beckett had temporarily forgotten how to breathe. She'd never stepped back and thought of it in that way before — she couldn't, because it painted an intolerable picture of an incredibly foolish and self-absorbed woman who squandered an unbelievable, once-in-a-lifetime, and almost fairytale opportunity to finally find happiness.
Her eyes flicked up to look at him again, and she saw that he was focused on the salt and pepper shakers. There was a line of tension on his brow, and he looked somehow sad and anxious all at once, and in that moment she knew — knew, without a shadow of a doubt — that he hadn't written a word in the last several weeks either. He'd lost even that outlet for how he was feeling; something so essential to who he was.
The feeling in her chest now was panic. All through these torturous last couple of weeks she'd been thinking of him as the man she knew, and the man she'd come to trust, and the man she held such deep feelings for. It was only now that it all really came together for her and she consciously acknowledged the other side of him, that had called to her long before she knew him. Richard Castle, bestselling novelist. Castle, partner and friend and defender and father and son. And… Rick, who she'd only really allowed to exist for her in the last few months, privately, and entirely within her mind. All three were the same person; the man sitting right here in front of her, avoiding her gaze. How close she'd come to losing him entirely. How easily she still might.
She could feel her pulse thudding in her sternum, and goosebumps broke out along her arms. They had both hung their coats on the rack back at the cafe's entrance, and Castle's bare arms were now laid across the bright, chequered tablecloth, the hundreds of dark hairs standing out in contrast against his tan skin. His right index finger slowly drew patterns that she couldn't decipher, and somehow it was this tiny and unimportant detail that was finally too much.
She reached forward and clasped his right hand between both of hers, gripping tightly and holding on, compelling him to look at her.
Castle flinched when she suddenly took his hand in hers, slender and cool fingers twining around his much larger and warmer digits. The pressure of her grip was surprising too; it was urgent, and there was something desperate about it. He felt a wave of too-familiar feelings rising up.
Longing. Hope. Need. Desire. Love.
Betrayal. Rejection. Anger. Bitterness. Despair.
They overlapped each other, shifting from moment to moment, blending and separating and blending again; an inseparable mess of emotions that only churned his insides and left him feeling scrambled, and stunned, and detached. He forced all of it down, and slowly looked up at her.
Her eyes were liquid, and wide, and panicked. A part of him — and he wasn't sure whether it was a wholesome and healthy part, or something very different — was gratified by it. She should be suffering, right alongside him. But he also hated to see her in distress, and it required a supreme effort of will not to cave in and simply comfort her, reassuring her that all would be well. He could do it so easily.
But he wouldn't go back to the holding pattern. To the ambiguity, and limbo. The lack of any timeline, or honest acknowledgment of what had happened before, along with a concrete statement of intent about the future. He'd had more than enough of waiting, and his patience had run out when he discovered that she had been lying to him.
From behind the glass, in front of a stranger.
A feeling like nausea chased through him, and he steeled himself for whatever she was going to say.
Beckett watched the flash of concern and what looked like compassion on his face, and her heart lifted, but then his eyes became bleak again. A look passed across them that was so dark, and resentful, and despairing, and so worn out, that she immediately felt a tightness in her chest.
Make it count, her mind said in Lanie's voice, but she'd had no time to prepare. She didn't know she was going to run into him like this, and as now that he was finally here in front of her again, all she could feel was a broken mixture of relief and gratitude and fear and panic, and putting together some kind of coherent plan was the very last thing she'd be able to do right now.
She felt the moments ticking by as he looked at her expectantly — always waiting, so much time spent waiting for her, and when had it become so appallingly long since they'd talked on the swings — and still nothing came to mind. She felt the barest hint of movement in the hand of his that she held between hers, and she only squeezed more tightly.
"I…" she began, swallowing when she found that her throat was suddenly dry, and then she dropped her gaze to their entangled hands on the tablecloth. It was easier to think if she couldn't see him looking at her. She took a fast breath, and just began to speak without knowing what words would come out.
"I'm sorry, Rick. I'm so sorry. I… I don't know how to do this, but I'm going to try."
Her thumb traced across the back of his hand, moving slowly but ceaselessly, and she didn't see his eyes flicker shut for a moment before opening again.
"I hurt you. I know that now," she said, "and I never meant for it to happen. But I guess it was always going to go this way, because I should never have… lied to you."
Her voice wavered, and she risked a glance up at him, but now his eyes were closed, and his jaw was tense.
"So not just lunch after all," he said, but there was no real anger in his voice; only resignation. She knew she was taking a big risk by trying to confront their issues when he'd said he needed time, but she was desperate. The last two-and-a-half weeks had seemed like two months, and if not for their coincidental meeting today, she had no idea how long it would have been until she saw him. Or how long until she'd see him next.
"I'm sorry," she said again, "but… I just—"
She was interrupted by the waitress returning with their coffees. The young woman asked if they'd like to order food, and Beckett said they'd call her over in a little while, when it got nearer to lunchtime, and the waitress smiled and left. Beckett hadn't released Castle's hand during the entire interaction, but now he pulled it slowly but insistently from her grip.
"Let's not do this, Beckett," he said, frowning into his coffee cup, his voice weary and defeated. "I already get it. What I haven't figured out yet is how to deal with it."
She swallowed, anxiously waiting to see if he'd continue. When he didn't, she slid her now-empty hand across the table towards him, leaving it splayed on the tablecloth.
"What do you mean, you get it?" she asked gently. "There's nothing to get, Castle; I… I was a coward, and I should have—"
He lifted his own hand just enough to silence her, and she huffed in a mixture of frustration and guilt.
"I'm letting you off the hook," he said. "I guess I'm a slow learner. But it's not even your fault." He laughed, but it was a humourless sound, then he looked down at the salt and pepper shakers again. "It's just… my imagination's too good. That's all."
She had no idea what he was talking about, but the broken tone of his voice scared her. Letting me off the hook? But I lied to you. I don't deserve to be forgiven just like that.
"I don't understand," she said. "Your imagination…?"
His eyes flicked up to meet hers, and he sighed deeply, then he made a half-hearted gesture that encompassed both of them, as if it somehow explained everything. She frowned and pressed her lips together, and she knew he could see that she didn't know what he meant. He sighed again.
"Look, Kate," he began tiredly, "you need to give me time. I'll get there, but I just need to… I don't even know what the right word is. Adjust."
"Adjust to what?" she asked, lifting the fingers of her hand that still lay on the tablecloth, but he didn't move.
"Things only seem clear afterwards," he said, half to himself, and she suppressed a shiver at hearing him speak aloud her own frequent thought during the silence of the last couple of weeks. "I swear that I never put it all together before. I didn't want to see it."
"See what?" she asked. "Castle, you're not making sense. Help me understand."
He looked at her for a moment as if she was crazy, then he shook his head briefly and sighed again. The gesture very clearly said what does it matter anyway?
"Well, there was Some things are better forgotten," he replied, and she felt her stomach twist. She had no chance to reply before he was speaking again. "Then the lie, for months. Months. And the… dance. Holding pattern. Whatever it is. And, you never meant to hurt me."
She felt the heat of shame rising in her cheeks, but still she didn't know what he meant.
"And now," he began, breaking off into another bleak little laugh and scratching his cheek, "well, now I kind of feel like the dumbest kid in school. I feel like an idiot. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry for putting you in this position."
Panic was bubbling up in Beckett's chest again, because he wasn't making sense but he clearly thought he knew what he was talking about, and everything about his body language said that the situation had only got worse since they started talking, not better.
"Position?" she asked. "Castle, what do you think is going on here?"
He blinked at her, and again there was the fleeting expression of disbelief, quickly swallowed up by the weariness and even a hint of shame now.
"This is… we're having the talk," he said simply. "I guess a part of me always expected it."
"The… talk," she said, watching his face for anything that would help her make sense of his words. He just nodded.
"The never-meant-to-hurt-you talk," he replied. "So I'm asking if we can skip this part. I just need some time. I'm still your friend, and I'm still going to be. I just wish you'd told me straight out, Kate. You should have just told me."
He ran a hand down his face, and it scraped against the stubble on his cheek. His eyes closed. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.
"You should have just told me that you didn't love me."
