He wakes alone, reaches over out of habit, a slight hope in his heart. But her side of the bed is cold, long vacated. It doesn't surprise him. Of course he'd hoped that 'Vacation-Kate' might be one to stay in bed, but it's rare he gets to enjoy an early-morning snuggle. He pulls her pillow to his chest, rolls over onto it and breathes in. He doesn't mind that she rises before him; her scent lingering on his pillows is enough. She's not one to delay the day. Years of early rising for work, of getting up in the middle of the night for body drops, have conditioned her to start fast. He imagines she's upstairs, sipping coffee and reading the paper. Tapping her foot and chewing on a pencil, waiting on him to roll his ass out of bed.
With a smile at the thought, he rises and stumbles to the bathroom. He scrapes his nails through his hair, his smile turning to a grin when he looks in the mirror. The red, puckered imprint of her lips greets him. This is why he doesn't mind that she's not into prolonged cuddling and lazy days spent in bed. Things like this remind him that she's more than the tight-laced and serious detective; that at heart she is playful, and mindful of his feelings.
She's independent, struggles to show her emotions, every move is calculated and well thought out. He's needy, puts his feelings on full display, frequently shoving a foot into his mouth in the process. He shows his love in hugs and kisses, his words for the entire world to see. She shows hers in small gestures and secret smiles, whispered admissions under the cover of darkness. It doesn't mean she loves him any less fiercely.
With a final glace to the waxy smear on the mirror, he bounds up the stairs, expecting to find her in the kitchen.
"Kate," he calls as he reaches the top of the stairs.
The living room is empty and a glance toward the kitchen reveals a meal, mid-preparation. Confused, he turns toward the study, maybe she was sidetracked by a good book. It's happened before. But he finds that room vacant as well. It's when he turns back to the great room and starts to scan the horizon, thinking that maybe she's gone for a run, that he sees them.
Alexis and Kate are sitting on the Adirondack chairs, facing each other and deep in conversation. Alexis has been crying, he can tell by the red blotches on her cheeks. Kate looks concerned but sympathetic, their hands are linked and an occasional wry grin escapes her lips. Whatever she is telling his daughter is serious and it takes everything within him not to rush outside and try to repair whatever is wrong with Alexis.
He tells himself that Kate has it covered. He trusts her judgment after all; on more than one occasion it's been Kate that has given him the right advice regarding his teenaged daughter. Still, as he pours himself a cup of coffee and resumes cooking the halted breakfast, he can't help but to feel uneasy to be left out of whatever is bothering his girl.
His head snaps up as they reenter the house. They are both smiling and share a look he can't quite decipher; a grin, raised eyebrows, something else.
Alexis mumbles a quiet, "Hey Dad," before quickly retreating downstairs.
"What's the matter?" he questions as soon as she reaches his side, ignoring the kiss she places on his cheek in greeting.
"Good morning to you too, Castle."
She grins but he thinks he hears a spark of irritation in her voice. Yeah, it's not his best greeting ever. Today was supposed to be the day everybody went home, the day the real vacation started. He intends to make it up to her. He'll start with an apology.
"Sorry," he says, backing her against the counter and greeting her properly, with tongue. "Good morning, beautiful."
"Mm, it is now," she agrees, snagging a piece of bacon before he can chop it up and add it to an omelet.
She takes the coffee he pours her, chews on the bacon, somehow making it sexy. She sits at the bar and sips on the beverage, smiles over the rim as he prepares breakfast. She sets the cup down and leans across the counter, elbows bent, hands resting on her chin. It provides him ample view of her cleavage. The hint of tongue peeking out from between her teeth as she smiles tells him she knows exactly what she's doing to him. He lays a plate in front of her with a dramatic flair.
"Breakfast is served," he declares, and she rolls her eyes. He makes his own plate and turns off the stove. She hums as she takes her first bite, the sound erotic and entirely too sensual for simply eggs. Noises like that should be reserved for chocolate dipped fruit or… Mm, apple pie.
"Alexis and I prepared it, you know. I'd hardly be so smug if I were you."
Immediately, he deflates. Alexis. His baby girl who has been crying. He wants to probe, but Kate has avoided the subject; he suspects the look the two women had shared is the reason. He wants to ask, but he doesn't because he can still taste her on his lips and the smug grin she's wearing is adorable. His stomach rumbles and he pushes his worry to the back of his mind. Breakfast is ready, he should eat. Surely Kate would tell him if it was something awful.
"I've seen how you make an omelet, Kate," he smirks as he sits beside her at the bar.
She gives him a sardonic grin. While Kate is a fantastic cook, in general, her omelet making skills leave a lot to be desired. Sloppy and scrambled is the usual end product.
"Shut up," she laughs around a mouthful of perfectly formed omelet.
He grins and takes a bite. It's delicious; they make a good team, even in the kitchen. He bumps her elbow, she chuckles and he contents himself to watch her, as she observes the view.
They eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, happy and content. But the fear is still there, bubbling under the surface, steadily rising with none of their usual tête-à-tête to fill the quiet. Something is wrong with Alexis and as her father he feels like he has a right to know what it is. He stuffs the omelet in his mouth, chews, swallows; he doesn't taste it anymore. He tastes bile, as fear for his daughter forms a lump in his throat. He lets his fingers graze her knuckles, watches as she gazes out toward the ocean, deep in thought. A satisfied smile graces her appearance; he knows he's at least partially responsible for the serene visage and the relaxed posture. This trip has, so far, been perfect; he has to ask her though. He's about to wipe that smile off her face, set tension in her shoulders, wrinkle her brow in frustration. He knows it. But he can't help it. It's Alexis.
"So…" He clears his throat and she gives him a look that clearly says, don't ask.
He does anyway. "Is Alexis okay?"
She sighs and turns on the stool, faces him and grips both his hands in her own. Her expression is serious but her voice is soft, her eyes gentle. "She's fine, Castle."
It's finite, Kate's resolute. Whatever she and Alexis were talking about, apparently it has been deemed that he isn't allowed to know. It irritates the hell out of him. She watches him, strokes her thumb over his wrist in a soothing manner, like she knows. Her eyes are pleading, pleading with him to trust her. And he does. It's just… god. He knows he's over-reacting, reacting as a papa bear and not as the cool dad. But Alexis is growing up and he feels like he's losing her.
"She's fine," Kate repeats calmly.
He nods. She's not upset at him for prying, not hurt that it must appear he doesn't have confidence in her. Kate is simply trying to reassure him without breaking his daughters trust. He's an ass. Alexis is fine. He repeats it to himself a few times, a mantra. Until the panic subsides and he can accept this for what it is.
And what it is… is rather astonishing. Alexis trusts Kate with her secrets and that… is huge. A year ago, he's pretty sure his daughter would have liked nothing more than to never see Kate again. He lets that thought take over, lets it marinate. Alexis trusts Kate.
"She trusts you," he says, the smile forming on his face.
She grins and ducks her head, shy, yet the trace of pride on her pursed lips.
"Kate, this is huge," he cries, jumping up from the bar and pulling her along with him. He pulls her into a rough hug and she laughs loudly as he squeezes her and rocks them side to side.
"Come on," he says, dragging her toward the stairs.
He needs to hold on to this mood, this feeling of joy because his daughter and his partner are finally getting along; getting along so well that they apparently keep secrets from him now. Ugh! And there it is again. He shakes his head to clear his mind. He will not ruin this day because he can't handle his baby girl growing up.
"Where are we going?" she asks coyly as they reach the bottom of the flight of stairs. She wears a smirk as though she expects sex. But he's got other things on his mind. It's shocking, but still… he's kind of sore from last night.
"To investigate a double murder," he cries. If the happiness is a tad forced, he doesn't think it shows.
She rolls her eyes, seems a little disappointed that they won't be starting the morning with a little action. "I feel like I should worry that these things make you so happy, Castle."
He huffs and trots ahead to find clothes for the day. She watches from the bed as he dresses, a small smile playing at her lips. He likes this, could get used to lazy mornings with nowhere important to go, no body drops or publisher's meetings, the quiet sense of peace surrounding them. They should come up here more often.
They try the local PD first. The sheriff is less than helpful and acts as though their mere presence in his small station is an irritation.
It's not like the man has anything else to do, Castle thinks. The phones are quiet and the office is impeccable. A giant orange cat greeted them at the door, barely lifting its head in greeting before rolling over onto its back and stretching its body to full length. There are no piles of unfinished paperwork or belligerent drunks, like at the Twelfth. It smells like lavender and lemons instead of sweat and burnt coffee.
"Look, Mr. Castle," he drawls, a slight sneer mixed with a fair amount of scorn transforms his plain features to something a little ugly. "We don't need some Jessica Fletcher wannabe up here disturbing things that have long been put to rest. It's just a story. And not a very good one at that."
Kate bristles beside him and he can't help but feel a little pride. A few years ago if someone had accused him of being the fabled author slash investigator she would have snorted with laughter and wholeheartedly agreed.
"It is the way I tell it," Castle mutters under his breath. Kate shoots him a look that clearly states, "shut up".
"Mr. Hollander," she says, deliberately disregarding the officer's title and cutting Castle off before his mouth can get them into trouble. "My name's Kate Beckett, Detective Kate Beckett with the NYPD. I can assure you that Mr. Castle and I are not here to cause you any trouble. While I will admit the case for murder is thin, I do believe there is cause to at least look into it. Besides, what harm can it do?"
Castle withholds a smug grin as Kate stands with one hand on her hip, the other extended for a handshake. The sheriff doesn't reciprocate the gesture and an expectant glare forms on her face. When the sheriff makes no move to respond, she continues.
"I don't believe there is a statute of limitations on murder, Sheriff Hollander."
Oh, nice one Kate! He gives her a mental high-five for pulling out his rank at just the right moment.
The sheriff raises an eyebrow and his lip curls into a disgusted grimace. But either the mention of his job description or simply the downright scary Beckett-scowl she's wearing does something to get the man moving because after a protracted show of huffing, puffing and rearranging files on the desk, he strolls into what looks to be a room only slightly larger than a storage closet. They hear grunts and sighs, the heavy clang of filing cabinet drawers opening and shutting. Finally, the sheriff reappears with an old, yellowed folder. He lets it flop onto the desk dismissively.
"It's not much," he says. "But you're welcome to waste your time."
Castle makes a move to open the file; he can't wait to see its contents. He imagines what he will find inside; doctors reports and police statements, maybe pictures, if they are lucky. Huh… Kate may have a point. He shouldn't be this excited to see pictures of a murder victim. God knows what a therapist would have to say about this part of him. His fingers brush along the edge of the folder, a reverent gesture before diving in.
"Not here," the sheriff states. It broaches no arguments. Spoil-sport.
"We can take this then?" he asks, a little unsure that this is exactly kosher.
"Mr. Castle," he says, apparently reaching his last rope with the duo, judging by the long sigh and the heavy way in which he falls to his desk chair. "This case is cold. About fifty years cold. I can assure you, no one will miss it. Just return it when you are done with it and get out of my hair."
Castle lets out a soft snort. The man is as bald as a newborn. He's about to retort, the comment is on the tip of his tongue, when he feels her fingers on his wrist.
"Come on, Castle," says Kate, tugging on his arm and angling them towards the door.
He grabs the folder and hurries to her side. He'd like to give this man a piece of his mind, remind him of police procedure and the wisdom of letting files leave the department. But then he remembers he's not actually a police officer himself, it might be frowned upon and he's got what he came for. Better to quit while he's ahead.
"I can't believe that guy implied I was some kind of half-assed Jessica Fletcher," he cries indignantly as they walk down the street and towards the public library. He's pacing ahead of her, riled up and apparently needing to blow off some steam.
She bites on her lip and tries to stifle a grin. It's crossed her mind more than a few times that his life bears a strikingly similar resemblance to the fictional author. Kate eyes his rear end as he paces up the library stairs; shorts, a rarely worn treat, offer her a delightful view of his strong thighs and taut ass. Mm, thank god the resemblance isn't corporal. She loves the man, his brilliant mind and loving heart, but there's no denying his rugged good looks and surprisingly well toned body plays a part in her affections. Kate doubts she would have let an elderly lady, with a penchant for skirt suits and colorful 'kerchiefs, follow her around for four years.
She lets out a soft snort at the mental picture; he turns and gives her a quirked eyebrow, huffs when he spies her smirk and enters the library ahead of her. He holds open the door for her of course; always the gentleman, even when she's bruising his ego.
"Oh come on, Castle," she says, as she brushes past him and pecks his cheek. "It was kind of funny."
"Do I look like a meddling old lady to you, Miss Beckett?" he says, crowding behind her, spinning her around and pushing her up against a tall column. He certainly doesn't feel like an old lady. She wraps her arms behind herself, holds on to the column as he presses himself up against her and nibbles on her jaw.
"No," she croaks out. "Definitely all man."
"That's what I thought," he gruffly says into her neck.
A soft throat clearing from somewhere to her left, quickly breaks the moment. An elderly woman sitting at an even older looking desk pointedly stares in their direction. With a self-conscious smile and a small shake of her head, Kate removes her tongue from his shoulder. With twinkling eyes, he backs up and allows her to wander ahead of him, toward the periodicals section - if you could call it that. Really it is two large filing cabinets, pushed together in a corner, a hand painted sign above.
The library is small and cluttered, housed in a building that was once a small community church. Row upon row of shelves mark where the pews once sat, colorful posters that Kate imagines were painted by local students, mark the different sections.
"Castle, look through that file would you," she says as she trails her hands over a row of well-worn hardcovers. "Find the exact dates of their deaths so we can find the relevant newspapers."
He does as she instructed and she hears him rummaging through the filing cabinets as she wanders down an aisle marked as fiction. For Kate, there's something calming about being in a library. Whether it's the airy, open halls of the New York Public Library or the nooks and crannies of this quaint little book depository, the effect is the same. The musty yet pleasing aroma of books, old and new, permeates her surroundings; cool recirculated air, the enduring scent of vanilla and leather, plastic and ink. She feels serene and forgets for a moment why they are there. The crinkled, red spine of a Sherlock Holmes anthology calls to Kate, her fingers linger a while, tracing the gold lettering. It's been years since she read them. She smiles at the thought of the barely restrained jealousy, which Castle would be hard-pressed not to display, if he caught her caressing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
"Oh, Kate, I found them!" she hears, followed by his heavy footsteps, buffered by the aged and mismatched, oriental rugs that cover the floors. Before she is quite back to her senses, he is pulling her towards an old oak table and excitably urging her to dive in to the case with him. She lands with something of a thud in the cold and wobbly chair, wincing as her tail bone connects with the hard surface.
Slightly annoyed by the abrupt departure from her happy reverie she snaps at him, "You know what, Castle. Jessica Fletcher may not be so far from the truth."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, looking hurt and insulted.
Crap. He's upset. It wasn't supposed to come out so harsh. But her ass hurts and he surprised her. The truth right? They had agreed not to let things fester. No time like the present. Strike while the iron is hot. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Oh, quit procrastinating and just let him have it, Kate.
"It's just that sometimes, Castle," she sighs. "Sometimes… your insatiable need to know everything is a little over the top. Sometimes it's…" She stands up and run her hands through her hair, rubs a palm over her still throbbing coccyx. "Jarring," she finishes. His eyes flash with something she can't quite grasp, he looks hurt and maybe a little wary.
He's quiet. Too quiet, because they've had similar conversations before and it's never ended in an awkward silence, not the likes of what's going on now. She feels his eyes on her back but she can't bring herself to turn around just yet. Not until she has a handle on whatever it is that's going on, what's gotten him so defensive. Why he's holding back and not giving as good as he gets.
Castle knows his eager puppy routine sometimes gets on her nerves, he's known that for years. He used to use it just to get a rise out of her, to make her snap at him, so he could offer his best little-boy grin and wheedle an amused smile out of her. She's always forgiven him quickly, most recently with a pardoning press of lips. So why is he suddenly so wounded looking?
"Not everything," she hears him mutter from behind her.
She turns then, looks him in the eye. He doesn't look particularly angry, he looks… sad and hurt. What is he talking about? She's always pushing his buttons and calling him a man-child.
"Castle, help me out here… please."
He turns away, the rise and fall of his shoulders evidence of his attempt to pull himself back together; deep breaths. She wishes that she too could suck in a little more air; her breathing is shallow, her airways feeling narrow and thin. She touches the pads of her fingers to her chin, feels it tremble. Her vision swims a little and she realizes that she is about to cry, that she can't even pinpoint why. This is ridiculous. She takes a long and shuddering breath; it sounds loud in the cold silence of the empty library. She blinks rapidly to clear the blur and swipes at her eyes.
He turns at the sound. She watches as he composes his features, his eyes softening a fraction as he rises and comes to her side.
"Come on," he says. "Let's just go home."
She'd thought they were done with this dance. Side stepping the truth and weaving away from uncomfortable conversations had been a thing of the past. Had been. Apparently she missed the part where he once again put on his dancing shoes. This isn't the time or the place for confrontations though.
She nods her head in agreement and leads the way out onto the street. When she reaches her hand back for his, a gesture that has become as routine as placing the next foot in front of the other, she finds nothing but air. He's still standing up on the steps, a distant and sad look in his eyes. Suddenly, she feels like a wallflower; his dance card full, she's been swept to the sidelines. But at least now she knows what he's upset about. She knows that look. This isn't really about her; it's Alexis. She could probably fix this by confiding in him, but by doing so, she'd break Alexis's trust.
And she can't do that. She won't. And so she waits for him by the car.
The ride home is awkward. Uncomfortable, strained silence punctuated by an uneasy clearing of throats and a flitting of eyes that never quite make contact. He's glad it's only a five minute ride.
He makes coffee as she settles with the files at the dining table. They haven't spoken since the library. She looks out to the ocean, her lips down-turned and her posture screaming taut control. He feels like an ass, he's been passively-aggressively making digs all day. Despite his best efforts to forget her conversation with Alexis and to trust that Kate can handle the situation, he knows that he's fallen short. He's made glib remarks and biting comments to the most mundane of things; he had shut her down when she'd outright asked what was wrong.
A few months ago he would have chided her for hiding her feelings; it doesn't surprise him then that she snapped at him in the library. Kate's intuitive; she has to know his mood isn't in response to the Fletcher comment.
He observes her as he prepares sandwiches for lunch, watches as her expression changes from sadness to one of wistful envy. Her lips twitch upwards and into a small smile. Walking over and setting the plate on the table, he looks out towards the beach, hoping to see what has captured her attention and lifted her mood, hoping to make peace.
His heart plummets. Somewhere to the vicinity of his feet, he thinks. Nick and Alexis Hamilton are chasing each other around the sand. His daughter runs up behind Nick, tackles him to the ground and throws her head back in laughter as his hands reach around and squeeze her rear. He can't watch this.
"Why is she even out there with him?" he grumbles, purposefully sitting opposite Kate and away from the view.
"Rick," she sighs, "You know why. She likes him."
Yes, but what he doesn't know is why she likes him, apparently he has been deemed unworthy. He is no longer his daughter's confidante. It stings.
"Yes, but why does she like him?" He hears the whine in his voice. He doesn't care, he can't help it. "She was crying this morning, Kate. I have no doubt that man was the cause of it."
Kate rolls her eyes at him and he clenches his fists.
"Yesterday he was a strapping, young lad; a good friend of the family. Now he's that man?" she argues with a raised brow.
He doesn't want to fight with her. Really, he doesn't. But she's there and since he can't just run outside and accost his daughter without making an even bigger fool of himself, Kate seems like a decent target. She's not telling him something that might be important. Haven't they had this fight before? Haven't they already worked this out? The more he thinks about it, the angrier he becomes.
"Yesterday, Alexis wasn't crying. Yesterday, I wasn't in the dark. Yesterday, I was the go-to guy. And since no one will tell me anything" he snarls, looking to Kate, "I can only assume that he is the one to blame."
Kate recoils from his angry glare.
"Yeah… well, you know what they say about assuming, Castle," her voice is raised, high and annoyed.
Oh, he knows. And he's being one right now; an ass that is.
"No wonder she didn't come to you," she mutters as she rises from the table and heads toward the stairs.
No wonder she didn't come to him?
"I can't imagine why she came to you," he sneers, instantly feeling sick to his stomach.
Fuck.
You always hurt the ones you love, right?
He hears her angry footfall down the stairs, the door as she not quite slams it, but makes it known that he is not welcome to join her. He slumps onto the table, a thud resounds as he heavily lets his head fall onto the tabletop. Then another sound, the soft snick of the balcony door opening, the buoyant voice of his daughter as she greets him.
"Hey, Dad!"
Fuck.
Thanks to Nic and to Avi for holding my hand and dragging me through my most recent bout of, "Fuck it all, I hate this story and why didn't I just stick to the porn?!" They are angels, both of them.
You know what I like.