Chapter 10: Word of honour
It's not affectionate, that's for sure. Electric, possibly. Explosive. And utterly insane. Just like last time, she's opened to him despite the pain she's been in. Just like last time, her reaction to him increases his to her increases hers to him in a feedback loop that's twisting them tighter, closer, higher and this time he's holding her close enough, firmly enough that she can't move her arm to hurt it, gently enough that he won't hurt her. She's kissing him back like he's the last man in the world and his hand is in her hair and the other sliding round her waist and down to hold her in and this is how he'd dreamed it, night after night after night: this is how his dreams had begun.
It's not how they'd ended. Oh no.
Oh no. He can't do this. She can't do this. She's not herself. He has to – ohhh, she's just nipped his lower lip and it feels so good – he has to stop.
He lets go and steps back, hands clasped behind his back to prevent himself taking her back into his embrace and starting again and this time not stopping.
"You can't do this, Kate. We can't do this."
She half-leans forward, pulls herself back, looks for an instant totally confused – and then as if he'd slapped her. And then her face drops immediately into its cool, frozen mask. She's out past him faster than her pain should have allowed her to move.
Oh hell. It takes him half a second to convince his feet to move, and then he's taking the stairs three at a time to catch up before she thinks he's rejected her. She's already put the suitcase out when he falls through the guest room door. When she looks up at his crash landing a foot inside the room her face is still completely closed off and cool. It looks, in fact, like… exactly the same expression as she'd had when Gina turned up at the precinct and Kate had waved him off for the summer.
Oh shit. Sudden, appalled realisation hits him. He'd always thought that she'd gone off with Demming for their little lovebird weekend (not that he was bitter or anything) and then they'd found out it wouldn't work after that. No-one had ever indicated anything else. Oh. No wonder the boys, and Montgomery, had been so pissed off with him when they'd arrested him again. Kate had been steeling herself to accept his invitation. And then Gina had walked in, and Kate's expression had closed down just like it is now, and she'd said have a great summer, see you in the fall. And he hadn't understood till right this moment.
"Were you going to come to the Hamptons with me when Gina turned up?" That was not at all what he meant to say. Kate doesn't react at all. She's awkwardly opening the closet and she's about to start packing. The suitcase is gaping, swallowing down his sense and his hopes and all chance of happiness if he doesn't mend this right now.
"Were you?" blurts his undisciplined mouth.
"What does that matter?" She's picked up the fresh pants and is laying them in the suitcase, one handed and clumsy. He can't see her face for the long hair falling around her. Her voice is completely cool and controlled. "It was a long time ago. You went with Gina, wrote your book, had a good time." She stands to collect a pile of tops.
Castle moves rapidly and removes the pants from the suitcase and the tops from her left arm.
"You're not leaving." He puts it all back in the closet, fending Kate off as he does.
"What do you think you're doing? Give me those back! You can't force me to stay here. I'm going home. This was a mistake."
A mistake. The words hit him, shrapnel-spray, shredding the easy accommodation he thought they had reached. She's still speaking.
"I shouldn't have agreed to stay here. You shouldn't have to put up with it." He hears you shouldn't have to put up with me. Maybe he also hears you don't want me. "I should go home. Better for all of us." No, it wouldn't be.
"You are not going anywhere." Castle takes the high-handed approach and swings the now empty suitcase on to the top of the closet. There's no way Kate can reach it without standing on a chair and two usable arms. Probably. "Gates ordered you to stay here and you promised you would stay here and that's what is going to happen."
No it isn't, Castle. She doesn't break her promises – unless the other side breaks theirs first. He'd implied he wanted her. He'd said he loved her. And he's just pushed her away. So since the other half of this deal had been that he – had feelings for her, and he doesn't, beyond casual, friendly affection, she's not staying. So it won't matter if she breaks her promise and it won't matter if she leaves these clothes here because she can't reach the suitcase or get it down the stairs. She'll get her stuff back somehow. One of the boys will collect it for her. Or Lanie, via Alexis. They seem to have some sort of a bond. You don't impose on your partner like this: staying and being waited on. Partners are for work, and the job, and solving crimes. Not for propping up your screwed-up life.
At least there's no need to tell him the truth, now. He never meant it anyway, so what matter if she heard it or not? She calls on all her training and skill and preserves a perfectly emotionless voice and face, sits down on the armchair and waits for Castle to leave.
"Please let's not discuss this now. I'm going to read for a while, till my shoulder stops hurting. I've taken the painkillers." So please go away. I don't want you here. I don't want you in here if there's nothing more than partners. Just let me cope with that in peace. She stands, picks up her Kindle from the bed and returns to the chair, hiding the pain in her shoulder and the pain in her heart.
"Kate… it's not what you think." No, it isn't. It's not what I thought at all. She pretends to read the page, presses down to turn it though she hasn't absorbed a single word. She doesn't look up.
"Castle, I'm sorry, but my shoulder really hurts and I just want to be on my own till that stops."
"We'll discuss this later. When your shoulder isn't hurting." He sounds as if there can be no doubt of that. No, we won't. Because Alexis will be home and at dinner and then I'll be in here and then I'll be gone. She doesn't let that show, either, turns another unread page. She hears Castle leave and rises to shut the door.
She'd misunderstood. Just like last summer, she'd misunderstood. It had just been a shock-induced reaction to the shot and her dying. Well, she's been here before. Last summer. She coped then, she'll cope now. She'd misunderstood the affection for something more, when clearly it's just another manifestation of protective, almost-parental Castle, looking after those who need it in his normal, affectionate, tactile way. Nothing more to it than that. Beckett is hurt, Beckett needs help, Beckett needs comfort: therefore, Castle will provide it. Lortab and hugs will make her feel better.
She feels so much worse.
She retrieves her purse, considers it, and folds up the two t-shirts of Castle's small enough to fit. She can always have them. The man himself… well, she's clearly not going to have him, is she? He'd pushed her away from him. That's a clear statement if ever there was one. She'd only have needed a hint. She doesn't stay where she isn't wanted. She cringes at the thought of how she'd behaved under the influence of the Lortab. At least she can blame the drugs. And then they'll never need to talk about the last four days ever again.
Time to go home, Kate. Time to go home.
The Kindle, fortunately, is immune to light showers of water.
When Alexis arrives home Castle is in his study and Kate hasn't been seen downstairs since he left her doorway. Time has passed in an unhappy haze, and Castle hasn't managed to write anything other than ghastly miscommunications between Nikki and Rook all afternoon. Naturally, therefore, Alexis is bright and happy. Or at least as happy as she's been since Stanford turned her down. Idiots.
"Hi Dad," she grins.
"Hi Pumpkin. Good day?"
"Yes. Aced my history test" -
"Told you so."
"– started putting together my applications for other schools." Castle chokes. "Got you," Alexis smirks. Castle mutters almost under his breath about serpent's teeth and his failing sanity until Alexis waltzes off, pausing on the way.
"Where's Detective Beckett, Dad?"
"Upstairs, reading. She didn't want to go out again today." He produces the normal pout which he uses when someone doesn't like one of his ideas. "I thought we should go and be tourists."
Alexis looks at him fondly. "You just wanted an excuse to wander round buying ice cream cones."
Castle acquires a wounded expression. "Of course not. I don't need an excuse to buy ice cream." He pauses. "Cotton candy, now… I could take Beckett to Coney Island!" Alexis snickers and disappears. Castle breathes a sigh of relief. Fooled her.
He goes back to thinking about earlier. He can't say Kate if I hadn't stopped we wouldn't have stopped. Nor can he say Kate I don't want to get into it with you when you're doped. Nor can he say I know you lied. Plus or minus and I don't care that you did but tell me the truth now. None of those are the right place to start. One of them, though, is a place he needs to go.
Nothing's any clearer at dinner time. Castle has come to the conclusion that the only way he might actually be able to salvage today's mess is by kissing Kate some more, but she doesn't come down until Alexis does, which is not helpful, or hopeful, and then on Alexis refusing her help to clear up after dinner she politely requests two Tylenol, which Alexis provides with much offering of sympathy, and then retires upstairs again with a polite explanation that since her shoulder is still hurting she's just going to stay in the very comfortable pillows that they've provided and try to fall asleep early. Pain, she says, makes her snappish – she produces a relatively creditable rueful grin – and she doesn't want to inflict that on her charming – a more sarcastic grin as she looks at Castle, and a genuine smile for Alexis – hosts.
"Night, Detective Beckett," Alexis chirps.
"Till tomorrow, Beckett," Castle follows.
"Good night," Kate murmurs.
Castle thinks she looks tired and stressed again, but puts it down to the shoulder, the need for Tylenol, and being thwarted. She can't go anywhere without her suitcase, and she can't reach that. In the morning they'll talk, and he'll fix it.
Upstairs, Beckett is considering the results of the successful uses of careful and extensive make-up in hiding one's miseries as she cleans up before bed. The wash bag won't fit in her purse, but her make-up will and she's got spare body wash and hair products at home. She'll work out how to cover her arm. It's only another couple of days in the sling anyway. Or she could use a scarf or something that won't matter if it gets wet, and just cover the dressing. That should come off soon too.
Anyway. It's not as if she won't have time and space to work it out. Rather too much of both. She turns for the bed and curls into the pillows. Plenty soft pillows, to smother one's feelings. She'd rather have a less soft place to rest her head, with a slow smooth beat under her ear. But it's not on offer. So there's no point in wishing for it. She sets her alarm for five, turns her Kindle back to the last page she remembers reading, and lets the Tylenol take away the ache in her arm. Soon enough it also takes away her desire to stay awake.
At five a.m. the quiet buzz jolts Beckett awake and she dresses, still cursing the awkwardness of one-handedness, quietly ensures she has her purse and her gun, checks that her wallet is sufficiently full for a cab home, and sneaks silently down the stairs with her shoes in the hand in the sling. She doesn't put them on until she's carefully closed the loft's outer door behind her. She's home twenty minutes later, locking her door behind her, and settling down gratefully into her own bed, the crumpled t-shirts in her grasp. Her bed has become, this last month, familiar with the posture of her misery, and welcomes her in to comfort her.
Castle wakes in his own comfortable bed with a feeling of some hope that today he'll manage to sort matters out with Kate and explain that while he really, really likes kissing her he'd rather she was doing it while in her right mind and preferably with both arms available. Maybe the best way to do it is to simply go back to cuddling her at every available opportunity. Maybe he can manage to convince her to talk about what else is wrong. And maybe not. That's a long, hard trail waiting to be ridden.
He wanders out to find Alexis and the coffee both at breakfast but no sign of Kate. That doesn't worry him. She'd probably wanted to sleep longer, and perhaps she might feel uncomfortable in front of Alexis, given yesterday.
He doesn't start to worry until he realises, some time later, that it's close to ten and he's heard nothing that indicates that Kate is awake. Worry nags until he succumbs to its goading and goes upstairs to investigate. The guest room door is pulled mostly shut, but it doesn't look dark, which suggests opened blinds.
Maybe she's reading. Maybe – likely – she's hiding from him, and the embarrassment he's sure she feels because he messed up his words yesterday: she won't exactly feel like spending time in his company when in her eyes – he is sure – she threw herself at him and he didn't want it. Didn't want her. She probably feels like a stupid teen fangirl meeting the idol she'd built up a fantasy around, and the truth of the situation dawning. He winces, understood agony clutching in his gut. He's got to sort this out, fast.
He taps on the door, quietly, just in case she is asleep still. There's no answer. He taps again, more loudly, and still there is nothing. He pushes the door open and goes in, hoping that he isn't going to intrude on a half – or not – dressed Kate. He can barely cope with a fully-dressed Kate, let alone one in only a towel.
Her possessions are all there. For a second that gives him hope. But then he realises that she is not. The bathroom door is open, and she isn't there either. He's been up since before eight, and she hasn't been down.
She's gone.
She promised to stay. She promised. And she's just upped and left. Couldn't reach her suitcase, and so desperate to leave that she left everything and broke her promise. She planned it. Made sure he couldn't talk to her because she was only there when Alexis was, sneaked out before any of them were up.
How did it get to this? How could doing the right thing go so wrong? How is he looking at the empty space where Kate Beckett ought to be – just like the first summer, when she walked away because he pried; just like the second, where she wished him a good time and watched him walk away without the single word that would have made him turn back; just like the summer just gone when she lied to him and ran away because she hurt. Just like now. She's run away because she's hurting. And he doesn't believe for a moment that it's her shoulder that's hurting.
He makes another cup of coffee and sits down to consider his options. They seem rather limited, right now. Go after her, or don't. He could set Gates on her, but that smacks of stool-pigeonry and is liable to reduce any chance of anything good to the same state as Hiroshima on August 7 1945.
She'll have to come back for her things. Won't she? He considers. It is possible – given the fragility of the détente between Alexis and Kate – that Kate, via Lanie, will arrange for Alexis to clear her belongings. Well, that can be stopped. If she wants her clothes and toiletries back, she will have to come and get them. The only problem is that that could take weeks – she appears to have an astonishingly extensive wardrobe – by which time she'll be even more convinced that he doesn't care than she is now.
He could ask the boys to go and find her and bring her back. Except that is such an unbelievably dumb idea that he can't even imagine how it got into his brain in the first place. It's not that they wouldn't – he's been aware for four months that they would back him up in anything that meant that Kate opened her eyes and fell into his arms – but he's not that keen on either admitting to his stupidity or involving anyone else in his love life.
But. But there is one way to do this. Lanie. Lanie has also made no secret at all of what Kate should do with regard to Richard Castle. Lanie has expressed that in some very earthy terms indeed. And Lanie is a doctor. Okay, so she only doctors the dead, but she's a doctor. A-ha. A plan begins to form in Castle's head.
Lanie can give Kate medical orders – and for some reason that Castle's never understood, Kate will do what Lanie tells her. His thoughts digress for a moment. Kate doesn't take orders from anyone, outside the precinct – there she doesn't take them from anyone but Gates, and even then he's seen her wriggle around the edges or avoid the situation where she's given orders she won't like fairly frequently. Kate, in fact, brooks no let or hindrance from anyone on God's green earth at any time. She must have been hell to manage, as a child and teen.
So, Lanie. Why does Kate allow Lanie to tell her what to do? Another thought pops into his head. Kate has, very occasionally, allowed him to tell her what to do. Or rather, given in.
Hmmm. It dawns on him extremely belatedly and slowly that Kate Beckett needs a safety net. And that's Lanie. And him. Someone has to tell her to stop, slow down, halt. Up till he showed up, it's been Lanie, her best friend. Since then - well, since sometime after, undefined and unnoticed – it's been him too.
An alleyway, some months ago, insinuates itself into his thinking. He'd not waited for permission then: he'd swooped and conquered, and she'd been right there in it with him. He'd not waited for her opinion the time when her apartment blew up, he'd simply told her how it was going to be and somehow, amazingly, made it stick. He'd done the same this time, he'd simply told her how it was going to be (okay, backed up by the threat of the wrath of Gates) and it had come about. She'd given in. And every time it had been in extremis. The last hope for saving Ryan and Esposito. The only place to stay: Lanie's sublet isn't big enough for two. The only person… his thoughts roll out ahead of him… that she's let look after her.
Oh hell. She only let him do it because she thought it meant, or he felt, something more. And now she thinks it doesn't. Not only that, but she remembers exactly what he said as she poured out blood on to the grass – he is suddenly perfectly certain of that - but by now she'll be sure to think he didn't mean that, that he only said it to try and pull her back from the brink.
Sorry...
Thank you to all reviewers and readers.