John Doe
He's the one who remembers that Powell was supposed to come by and crack the safe; she follows him back to his study even though he doesn't want her to get off the couch. As Powell promised, the safe door is open.
Kate seems reluctant to touch it, so he reaches in and pulls items out, one by one. Some things are familiar, most are not.
"This looks like account holdings information, Castle," she murmurs to him, rifling through the thick folder he'd handed her.
"Yeah. And stocks. Contracts. Some - uh - diamonds," he laughs, shaking the jeweler's bag at her. She lifts her eyes to him with a reserved smile.
"Anything else?"
"No. If I did steal that file, at least I wasn't stupid enough to bring it back here."
"You remember any of this stuff?" she says quietly, handing it all back to him as he reloads the safe.
"A few things look like - well, it's like a blip of ownership? Like yeah, that's mine. I don't know the first thing about those accounts, but the feel of the folder in my hands is right."
She sighs and seems to stumble back against the desk.
"Kate. You should-"
"No," she says, gritting her teeth. "Stop. Tell me what you remember."
He tries to find words to explain, but it's hard to untangle in his head. The thing is, he can't tell what he's missing because he feels suddenly filled up with images, a jumble of color and sound that won't quit.
But this? The way she pushes against his every instinct, his need to help? Feels all too familiar.
"We fight a lot," he says suddenly.
She shakes her head. "No." And then a wince, she lifts her hand to her temple and closes her eyes. "Well. A little. I'm a stubborn person-"
"You're passionate," he says intently.
She opens her eyes at that and he reaches out to gently touch the side of her head. "Kate." He knows his voice is raw. He can't help it. "You were shot last summer. And then this summer - we've been slow, I've waited for you - but you were shot. And now this-"
She sighs and leans into the touch of his hand; he wants to weep. Oh God, he's going to cry and that is so not manly.
"I'm okay."
"I got you into this. All of this. I reopened your mom's case even though you told me not to." And even as he says it, he thinks it can't possibly be true. Why in the world would he have shoved her right back to the edge of that dark hole? "I am such an asshole. Oh God. I've been the cause of all of this. How-"
Suddenly his self-denigration is shut off by the hot press of her mouth against his, her tongue stealing his words. He breathes thinly through his nose, feeling grief at the back of things, and brings his hands up to cradle her.
His wife. God, his wife. She's his wife and he needs her. So badly.
"Kate," he groans, hearing the sorrow that laces through him, poignant and deadly. "Kate, God, our kids-"
She jerks back, her hands clenching in his shirt, eyes wide and stunned and swimming with pain and confusion.
"Castle. What - what are you - your head. You - does your head hurt?" She lifts her fingers to the knot that's swelling up just above his ear. "Should I call Lanie-"
"No. Sorry. I didn't mean to say that." He has to bite his lip to keep it back. How he wants his family back. His kids. His wife. He needs them because everything else is falling apart and how in the world could he have put her in so much danger? She was shot.
Today. Not just last summer. Today. In the head.
"Castle?"
"It's all a mess. I can't figure out what's real. I think - there's stuff that's maybe true but it feels so wrong. Why would I have put you in danger like this, Kate? Going to Hubbard and stealing that file - it's stupid. It doesn't make any sense."
She strokes the side of his face, drops her hand as she stares at him. "Castle. If there's anything I've learned from you? We don't jump to conclusions; we have to find the story. There's always a story. It may look like you put us both in danger last night, but there's a story there and we need to find. It will explain everything."
"The story?" he says, frowning at her. "What does that even mean?"
She sighs, slips away from him to head back for the living room. He follows because what else is there to do? "The story is important," she says, even as she leans back against the couch with her eyes closed.
He stops in front of her. So the story, that's more shared history he doesn't have, isn't it? He hates this. He wants to go to bed and wake up with his wife and his kids and the way things are supposed to be.
"The story. You're a writer, Castle. Everything has a story."
"That sounds ridiculous. Sometimes a stupid idiot is a stupid idiot. There's no story behind that."
She lifts her head and he can see that there's a half-smile circling her lips, like she's sad but she's amused by him nevertheless.
"That's my line," she says softly.
"What?"
"The first case we worked together. You said there was always a story; I just needed to look harder for it. And I said no, sometimes a psychopath is just a psychopath."
"That makes more sense."
Her face falls; her teeth tug her bottom lip. "No, it doesn't. You were right. There's a story here - about last night. Castle, I know you. There's no way you'd have done that if you thought it would hurt me. There's a story and we need to find it."
"I don't know how. These guys just appeared out of nowhere; they either want to kill me or they want to kidnap me-"
"For the file. That's my guess. They want that file."
"They killed Smith," he gasps, struck by it again. Only this time - this time - this time he knows.
"Castle?"
"The phone call. The silence on that phone call. He's got to be dead and - we had a deal. He blackmailed the Dragon to keep you safe. You and Montgomery's family. We had a deal, Kate, and that phone call-"
"Castle."
He stands up, can't stay still with all of this roiling in him. "What the hell did I do with that backpack, Kate? I must have gotten the file. And they came for it after they killed Smith. Eliminated the middle man. Shit. Kate, we have to get that file-"
He's making a jerky movement forward, towards the door, when she moves to block his way. "Where do you think you're going?"
He stares down at her. "I - I don't know. Maybe - maybe my feet will just-"
"No. Damn it, Castle. We are staying here tonight; we are not leaving. It is dangerous for you out there."
"It's dangerous for you. Don't you get it? I made a deal to keep you safe. You weren't shot on accident; they wanted you dead last summer. I made a deal, but Smith is dead and no one is safe. That file is the only thing that can save your life-"
She sighs and steps into him, her arms coming around his waist, her cheek to his shoulder, and it throws him off so badly that he can only clutch at her and stare at the top of her head.
"Kate?"
"And there's the story, Castle. You asked how you could've done something so reckless last night, so that it puts me in danger today? That's how. Right there. That's your story."
What?
"You made a deal to keep me alive, Castle. And now the deal is off."
Oh God.
He clutches at her tighter, crowds her body against his with a press of his hand to her lower back, and then he buries his mouth in the upturned tilt of her lips.
She wraps her arm at his neck and her fingers slide through his hair, toy with his ear. Her mouth disappears from his to press suddenly to the side of his nose, under his eye.
"Castle. You are such a good man. And I'm so sorry to have pulled you into this."
Even with the painkillers, her head throbs.
It's not exactly hurt, more like a disconcerting ebb, her mind slipping in and out of focus without warning, the world swaying gently when she moves too fast; she tries not to let Castle see, not to let him worry.
She'll be fine; she just needs rest. She needs a good night's sleep. Although, well, there is little chance of that happening.
She watches Castle move in his kitchen, getting plates and spreading the pasta evenly between the two, the lovely smell of the tomato and basil sauce reaching out to her; he then turns to get glasses, opens a drawer for knives and forks, and something eases in her chest.
She's not sure he's even aware of it - how much more he remembers compared to this morning. Amidst all the craziness, the men on that video shooting at him, the ambush today that nearly succeeded, Kate finds comfort in this one thought, this one hope.
She's going to get him back; he's going to be the man she loves again.
He was always the man she loves, of course, but this morning - this morning he had forgotten about it, forgotten about her, and god.
She'd never have guessed it could hurt so much.
"Here you go," Castle says softly, handing her a plate and a fork before he sits next to her, carefully, like he doesn't want to jostle her.
She hates this, hates feeling like she's the weak one, the reason why they're eating on the couch rather than at the table - because she just can't find it in herself to stand up and take the couple steps that would lead her there.
Well, that, and Castle doesn't want her to move. He was adamant about it.
"Careful," he tells her now. "It's pretty hot."
She looks down at the plate in her hands; the pasta that smelled so delicious the minute before makes her nauseous now. She sighs and his head swivels to her immediately, concern flaring in his eyes.
"Kate, you okay? Does it hurt? You want me to call-"
She presses her fingertips to his mouth, that simple movement making her world tilt, and she shakes her head as softly as she can.
"You have to stop," she tells him gently, can't gather the energy to be mad anyway. "You have to stop worrying over me like this. I know it's hard, Castle, but I can't-"
She can't take it. It's too much. He's too much.
His eyes darken, comprehension and hesitance both. "It's too much," he says, a startling echo to her thoughts. "I - I understand, Kate. It's not. Not my place."
He swallows, and her heart bends. Her fingers move of their own accord, circle his neck, brush the soft hair behind his ears.
"No, Castle, that's not what I'm-" she exhales in frustration, closes her eyes, doesn't know anymore. What does she want? "You have - you have a right to be worried," she says quietly, lifting her eyes to him. "I will never deny you that, I just-"
"You need me to ease up," he finishes, his jaw set, and yet so much sadness in his voice.
Oh, and this is where they are, isn't it? This is where they were.
Him wanting more than she can give. Our kids, Kate.
She looks at him, stricken, her throat closed up but it doesn't matter because there are no words, no words that could make this right. No magical spell can bring her up to speed with him, can finally have them on the same page.
In the end he sighs, looks away. "I understand, Kate. I do. I - I can promise to try, but it's. It's hard for me. So much of it is just...instinctive."
"I know," she breathes, her heart is full of all the times he said we and our and my wife. She wishes, she wishes-
Her head spins and her hand slides off his neck, curls into a fist. His fingers come up over hers, warm and so strong, and he presses his lips to her knuckles, stays there until the dizziness has eased.
Oh, she doesn't deserve him.
"You need to eat, Kate."
She releases the breath she's been holding, nods slowly. He's right. He's right. She can do this.
She takes a mouthful of pasta, forces herself to chew, focus on that and nothing else.
But her heart is so heavy; it takes all the room.
He keeps watching her because he can't help it; it's second nature, not something he even does consciously.
The food has brought some color back to her cheeks, and although she still looks exhausted, he no longer feels like she might pass out any second. Good. He wants her to go to bed, wants to hold her until she's sound asleep, but...
Her eyes meet his and he quickly looks away, vaguely ashamed, feeling that she can tell exactly what he was thinking.
He gets to his feet and takes a few steps away from the couch, hoping the physical distance will help, since nothing else seems to work.
"Where you going?" she asks, and even though she's keeping her voice as neutral as possible he can hear the breathlessness, the need in it, and he thinks it is so not fair.
She keeps telling him she's not ready, that they're not there yet, and then she acts like that?
But when he turns back to her, mouth open to say that, he sees the large, white square of gauze at her temple; he hears the gunshots and feels her warm, sticky blood on his hands, and all the fight seeps out of him.
"Ah - just, just thinking. Maybe reading my books would help, would give me a better sense of...what you said, about the story, about every situation, everybody having one. Help me remember mine."
Her eyes clear with relief, and she nods once. "Right. Yes, of course, you're right. I think you keep copies of all your books in your study-" she moves as if to get up, and he wants to stop her, he really does, but the second he spends debating if it would be overstepping is enough for her to get to her feet.
He watches her, a hand half-raised, ready to catch her if she sways; she gives him a narrow-eyed look.
"Stop babying me," she warns.
He steps back, lets her lead the way, his eyes on her feet to make sure she won't trip. He can't stop; he just can't.
She goes straight to his books, obviously knows where they are; it makes him wonder how much time she's spent at his place, to know everything so well. The memories are still jumbled, a little hazy at the edges, and he knows some of it's still missing.
Not Alexis, though.
Alexis is a flame in the darkness, bright and warm and wonderful; he remembers the long hours of laser-tag and building a fort with her sheets, telling her stories until she would fall asleep curled up in his arms.
His daughter. He called her before he made dinner, just to let her know how things were - that he was getting quite a lot of memories back - but he kept it short, couldn't speak to her for too long. It's probably ridiculous, because honestly, if their enemies are as powerful and terrifying as they seem to be, then they know all about his daughter already.
He shivers at the thought.
"Castle?"
Kate is looking back at him, a book in her hand, uncertainty in her eyes.
"Yeah." He steps forward, pushing Alexis out of his mind, and he reaches for the novel she's holding.
"Heat Wave," he reads, smirks with condescension. "Sultry title."
Kate snatches the book back, holds it close to her chest. "Stop it," she says, so defensive, so fierce that it fills up his throat.
"They're only books," he objects, surprise strangling his voice, but a strange, dark pleasure spreading in his chest when he thinks that these are his books, his books, that make her react like this. So strong and protective.
"They're not," she protests, seems to realize how forceful she sounds, because she quiets her voice. "They're...more than that, Castle. I wish. . . But you don't remember your books? At all?"
He's confused by the grief in her voice. Over books? "Kate. I remember the important stuff. My daughter. You."
Her forehead ripples in concern. "But the books are important. They're you. It's what you are, Castle. A writer."
He grows still, tries not to move, tries to grasp something of that life she's talking about, the sense of doing something worthwhile, but it's not there. He sighs. "I don't know."
She bites her lip. "Do you remember how to write?"
"I don't know. Do I - just sit down and go?"
Horror slides across her face and she sways; he reaches out immediately and grabs her by the elbows, ducking his head to look at her.
"I'm fine," she murmurs.
"You are not fine."
"I'll be fine."
"Here, give me the book. Which one is this?"
"Mine," she says, then her eyes grow dark and she - is she blushing?
"Yours?"
"Nikki Heat is the character you based off of me."
He stares at her, mouth dropping open, his eyes cataloging every flicker in her expression. "I did what?" He grabs the book from her, keeping close to her just in case she's still unsteady, and then he studies the cover before flipping it open, immediately finding the dedication page.
"Nikki Heat," she murmurs, and one of her fingers touches the spine. "That's how you started at the 12th, Castle. How we became partners. First, you were my shadow."
To the extraordinary KB
"Oh, that's you," he murmurs, lifting his eyes to her. "Extraordinary."
She doesn't break his gaze, but her hand drops from the book.
"I'm right," he says finally. "You are extraordinary." And before she can say anything to negate him, to make him doubt all this, he flips the page and starts to read the first chapter, riveted by the idea that this is Kate, this is his wife - or if not his wife, then the woman he's in love with.
And shouldn't every book he writes about Kate be brimming with his love for her?
These books might actually tell him more than he expected.