Chapter 11: Absent without leave
Lanie. Yes. Lanie. Castle begins to plot and scheme in earnest. Lanie can bring medical pressure to bear on Kate: can tell her believably that she is not permitted to be on her own with her arm in a sling and the dressing still there – at least, not permitted to be on her own when there is someone else ready, willing and able to look after her. Surely, if Lanie puts her foot down, Kate will listen? Surely? He dials.
"Lanie?"
"Writer-Boy. Where's my girl? How come you never called me to let me know she was hurt and I had to find out from Espo? What exactly happened?"
Castle takes a moment to explain the tale of Kate's shoulder and arm, with particular reference to the amazing side-effects of the painkillers. Even without any of the more – er – private details, Lanie is snickering happily before he's done.
"So she's been high on and off for three days? I wish I'da seen that. I'll remember that for the next time. You gotta let me talk to her. Oooh, I'm gonna rag her so much about this."
Castle thinks that involving Lanie may not have been such a good plan after all.
"C'mon, put her on. I wanna talk to her."
"Um, Lanie… Kate's not here."
"You what now? Whaddya mean she's not there? Espo said she was staying with you till the sling came off, and by my reckoning that's not for another three, four days." Her voice changes. "What the hell is going on here, Castle? Where's Kate?" And that's the Lanie that they all regard with fear and loathing in Manhattan; the one who will face them all down without turning a single straightened hair.
"What have you two" – idiots is clearly inserted into that space – "done this time?" Lanie is far too good at deduction. But at least she's not blaming Castle alone. Then again, she knows Kate too well. There's a short silence, while Castle considers his options for not being eviscerated on one of Lanie's cold slabs – before he's actually dead. Before he's come up with a good answer, Lanie starts down her own deductive path. Castle really wishes she wouldn't do that. One fearsome woman ripping his thoughts out his head is quite enough. He really doesn't need Lanie to do it as well. She can't even see his face, for heaven's sake.
"I didn't do anything," Castle says plaintively. "That was the problem." There's an anticipatory silence down the phone. It doesn't take long for Lanie to break it when he doesn't continue.
"That's not an explanation. Spill, Writer-Boy."
"I-wouldn't-kiss-her-because-she-was-doped," Castle rushes out.
"Whaddya mean, you wouldn't kiss her? You've been trying to kiss her – or something" – Castle chokes on Lanie's salacious tone – "since the moment you met her. Now you're telling me that Kate wanted you to kiss her and you didn't take her up on it? You expect me to believe that?"
"She was doped, dammit. I'm not taking advantage of her like that."
"Very gentlemanly," Lanie says very sarcastically. "So how's that role working out for you?"
Castle splutters. "I'm always gentlemanly. Anyway" – he goes on the attack – "what do you suggest I should have done? Let her do something she'd regret as soon as she wasn't half-high? If Kate didn't kill me you three would do it for her."
There's another short silence while Lanie digests that. "Okay, I get that. You're right. So why are you calling?"
"I think Kate's gone home. She just left all her stuff and she's gone. I don't think she'll talk to me."
"Have you even tried?"
"Well…"
"No, then. You better try. I'm not getting in between you and Kate. That's like standing in the Korean DMZ. Or in the middle of a nursery fight. And I am not giving fake medical advice just so she comes back to your loft."
"Lanie. I don't want you to tell lies." Much. Though it would help. "But she was supposed to stay here till the sling was off and Gates has ordered her to and you know what Gates is like. She'll bench Kate for longer if she finds out Kate's disobeying orders."
"And how will Gates find that out?"
"She just will. She'll use terrifying mind powers to discover the truth and we'll all be assimilated to become Gates-clones and" –
"Castle." He can see Lanie rolling her eyes even though she isn't there. "Stop talking. Gates doesn't need to find out. Kate can probably survive on her own even with one hand. You know that. She lives on takeout. So why are you so keen that she comes back to the loft?"
Castle says nothing. Because I want her to doesn't seem like a reason that will satisfy Lanie. He compromises. "Why should she struggle when I'm happy to look after her for a few days?" There's a disgusted harrumph from Lanie.
"You're not going to leave this, are you?" she says resignedly. "Okay. I'll help. But first you try to call her and then you go round before I go anywhere near this disaster."
Castle winces. He'd hoped that Lanie would smooth his path a little. Seems like that won't happen.
"Okay, Lanie. But when Kate shoots me you need to make sure I get the best medical care in the city. Or the showiest funeral. If not I'll come back and haunt the morgue."
"Sure you will. Comp'ny'll be welcome, Writer-Boy. Even if it's you or your ghost." She cuts the call while he's still gibbering.
Now what? He stares unhappily at his phone, and the speed dial list, Kate's number at the top of it. He takes a deep breath and taps.
Beckett wakes up around half-past eight. It's no improvement on when she went to sleep. Her shoulder hurts, because she's tried to turn on to it a dozen times; her arm hurts, under the dressing, for the same reason; and her chest hurts. For an entirely different, large and blue-eyed reason. She sniffs determinedly and gets up. She'll make herself coffee. She can do that.
She can, carefully, fill the kettle; put coffee in the cafetiere with her left hand, only spilling a little of each scoop; (she'll clear up later) she can pour water into the cafetiere without scalding herself. It takes a little longer to work out how to hold it still and press the plunger, but eventually she manages that too. She drinks her coffee with considerable self-satisfaction. She's got this. She doesn't need any help.
She looks around and realises that she's left her Kindle at Castle's loft. That's really annoying, but she's got plenty real books and most of them have been read enough that they lie flat without any persuasion at all. Still, she avoids Castle's books and the picture on each back, all of which seem to be staring at her disappointedly. She picks out a book of Chekov short stories and settles back to her coffee. It's almost enough to drown her sorrows. Almost.
Time passes, slowly. Only two more days of this sling, Beckett tells herself. She flexes her shoulder a little, and it doesn't feel nearly as painful. She decides she doesn't need any more Tylenol just yet. Save them for later. They won't help the other ache, anyway. She wonders if she should go out. Go for a walk. Maybe go for a walk in Central Park. Plenty space there, not much risk of being jarred accidentally. In a little while, when she feels a little more like doing anything except moping and sniffling like some grade school kid. It's ridiculous. They weren't even dating. It's not like it's a break-up. They were partners and they'll stay partners. It'll just be like it was.
She doesn't want it to be just like it was.
But that thought brings her back to the other problem. Even if he had wanted her – and she'd been so sure, ever since he kissed her in an alleyway, that he did want her, ever since he'd been pleading over her bleeding-out body that he loved her – she can't have him without telling the truth. But there's no point, she thinks again, re-opening that can of worms. No need to tell the truth.
Suddenly she needs to be anywhere but inside, staring at the walls. She slips on her flats and grabs – well, cautiously lifts - her purse, makes for the door. No need to have her phone, she's not on the job and not on call. And if she's thinking that she doesn't want to speak to anyone and certainly doesn't want to explain her actions of the last few days and specifically this morning, well, no-one but she needs to know that.
Her phone starts ringing in her empty apartment about the point she's crossing the first intersection in the direction of Central Park.
Castle listens to the phone ring out and eventually go to voicemail and doesn't leave a message. He'll try again later. Knowing Kate, she's probably gone to try to convince some unfortunate junior medic to take off the dressing and the sling. He hopes she doesn't succeed. Her obvious pain yesterday doesn't incline him to think that she should have the sling off early.
He goes back to thinking. It gets him nowhere that he hasn't already been. An hour later, he calls again, and when that goes to voicemail again, this time leaves a message. Kate, call me. Then he has a sudden idea, and sends her an e-mail. With a read receipt. When she opens it – and she will, out of sheer curiosity – he'll know she's with her phone, at least. He wanders off to try to write for a while, wanders back later to make some lunch, writes some more, tries not to think about the expression on Kate's face yesterday, writes some completely useless paragraphs which don't fit the current plan for Nikki Four, which doesn't have a name as yet either – embryonic would be overstating its current level of development: it's barely made it to blastocyst stage; and eventually resorts to computer games and making paper aeroplanes which don't fly well or sometimes at all, a little light exercise to try to reduce his physical restlessness, listening all the while for the chirp of his phone.
It's five o'clock before it chirps, and Alexis is long home and dealing with her homework, while Castle's still messing around with Nikki Four and paper aeroplanes, neither of which has done anything to alleviate his ever-increasing worry. The chirp is, as he expected, simply the read receipt from the e-mail. There is no answer. Yet, he thinks. No answer, yet. Surely she'll answer.
Dinner passes off quietly. Alexis, though curiosity is sparking in her eyes, doesn't ask about Kate. Most likely, she assumes that Castle has done something to upset Kate. She's usually right about that. At times, Castle simply existing has upset Kate. If only it were that simple.
Alexis disappears again – her umbilical cord – oops, cell phone – to Ashley no doubt calling her – and Castle returns to his study and his phone. As the day has slowly passed, he's realised that Kate's sneaking off to run away – again – has left him once again bitterly hurt. She's simply assumed, despite his actions and – if she remembers them – his words, that nothing he's showing or telling her is true. He doesn't know why she still thinks like that, after everything. It hurts, that she doesn't see the truth of what he feels – or worse, that she does see it and doesn't trust it to be true. He thinks that it's one or the other, and doesn't know which he likes least.
He's hurt, but it doesn't stop his brain working. She lied. She's run. She thinks he doesn't care. Ah – the piece he'd forgotten, earlier. She's insecure about her whole life – the life she so nearly lost. For the first time, he thinks, she's really seen how fragile her life can be. She's lost confidence in herself, her ability to do her job, which is still far more of her life than it should be, and him. So it's not a long step for her to believe that him trying to do the right thing in – er - difficult circumstances is really him pushing her away. Especially when she thinks she already pushed him away, by running off the whole summer. Yes. Walking warily can easily transform into flight.
Okay. It's close to eight p.m., and he really cannot believe that Kate hasn't got home by now. He taps her number, and waits for her to pick up. This time, if she doesn't, he is going round, and he will not be leaving till she comes with him. He thinks about that for a second. There are some possibilities there.
Kate doesn't pick up. He sighs.
"Alexis," he calls up.
"Yeah, Dad?"
"I'm going out. I might not be back till really late. Don't wait up, okay?"
"Okay, Dad." There's a slight pause. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"That's no fun, Pumpkin. You never do anything immature." There's a snicker from upstairs as Castle swipes up his jacket and leaves.
The doorman of Beckett's building nods pleasantly at Castle as he saunters in. He's relatively used to seeing him, and doesn't bat an eyelid when Castle stops to pass the time of day – Castle's happy interest in all the people and events that pass his nose has had an ulterior motive since the day he met the doorman. Doormen. He's made sure to meet all of them. Now he's putting it to good use. The doorman allows as Detective Beckett had come home early that morning – he'd had it from the night shift – and gone out around ten, ten thirty. She'd not come back till five, and she'd looked pretty beat, what with the arm and all. Has Mr Castle come to see her? (Well, duh, yes.) Castle nods, agreeably, and the doorman grins.
"Go right on up, Mr Castle. She could use some comp'ny, for sure, with that arm." He doesn't need a second invitation. He's in the elevator in a twinkling of one of his big blue eyes. Which twinkling winks out the instant the doorman can't see him any more. Went out at ten thirty and came back at five? That's not a day out, he thinks, that's a deliberate avoidance strategy. Irritation meets hurt and their shotgun wedding produces determination.
Castle strides out the elevator intent on Beckett giving him some answers, and raps firmly on her door.
Central Park is not especially busy. Nor, however, is it especially warm, given that Beckett can't fasten her coat over the sling and in an unusually sensible moment has not taken the sling off to put the coat on. She's realised that the fastest way to get the sling off is to do what the doctors have instructed. Doing what she's told, medically, is not, however, exactly her natural habitat, and she's irritated by the necessity. Still, if it gets her back to normal – relatively – faster, she'll do it. Possibly through heavily gritted teeth, but she'll do it.
She's a little cold. She stops off for some nice hot coffee, made by someone with two usable arms, and considers the empty day unrolling bleakly before her. Might as well get used to it. She's got another five days before Gates lets her back, and judging from the boys' expressions they're not going to do one single little thing until then to let her help them. She could always be a tourist, she supposes. On her own. It doesn't really appeal, but she doesn't have a better idea. She drains the cup and takes off in the direction of the Planetarium. If she sees the show it's soothing and dark and quiet and she can stay sitting down. It might even be interesting.
It is interesting. So interesting that Beckett spends a considerable proportion of the afternoon there too, not noticing the time pass, wandering around and stopping every so often for coffee. She's a lot less achy, she notices. At least around the shoulder. Finally, however, she looks at her watch and realises that unless she wants to fight her way through the rush hour hurry and scurry she'd better leave.
She makes it home just before five and automatically checks her phone. There are two missed calls from Castle, a voicemail and an e-mail, which she opens with some curiosity. She doesn't normally get e-mail from Castle, only texts. Call me, it says. So does the voicemail. She doesn't. If she calls she'll have to explain why she sneaked out, and explaining I thought you wanted me with the implication of just like a stupid little fangirl fantasy is sufficiently humiliating that she'd simply rather not. She'd rather just forget it ever happened. Maybe later she'll be calm enough to construct a message of It was a mistake letting Gates bully you into letting me stay and it wasn't working for either of us that doesn't also sound like I never want to see you again. Right now, that's an intellectual effort she isn't capable of making. Telling the truth - I've been lying to you for four months that I didn't hear you but now you've made it clear you don't want me regardless of what you said so let's pretend none of it ever happened and just be work partners again – over any communications medium is such a disaster that she can't contemplate it.
In default of anything else to do, and recognising that firstly she hasn't taken any painkillers and secondly that, practically, dinner is going to arrive from one of the many excellent providers of architectural Styrofoam, she awkwardly manages to open a bottle of decent Californian white – screw tops are a wonderful invention, she thinks – and settles down with a small glassful. In the harsh glare of twenty-twenty hindsight, drinking it is the best thing that's happened all week. Some time later she orders her dinner. Pizza. She only needs one hand for pizza. She pours some more wine into her glass. It's not as if she needs to get up in the morning.
Pizza duly arrives. Contact with the outside world is minimised by Beckett spending some focused time with her wallet before the delivery boy shows up so that she doesn't end up dropping all her change on the floor in front of him. Not dignified. Not at all.
When her phone chirrups, she's not really in a position to answer. The phone is some distance away, in her purse. The pizza, though, is in her lap, and the wine glass in her hand. By the time she's sorted all that out, one-handed, and stood up, the phone's stopped chirruping, and since it doesn't then indicate a voicemail there's no point struggling to investigate right now. She'll finish her dinner first. The suspicion that it's Castle calling has, of course, nothing at all to do with her lack of urgency. She's been benched, so it can't be a body, so it can't be urgent. Simple.
She returns to her pizza, and when that's done struggles through washing her pizza-flavoured hand one-handed. She is truly over this sling. Although at least she hasn't dropped her dinner down her front. Having to wear a bib would be truly humiliating. As if she weren't humiliated enough already. (Fangirl, says a bitter little voice in her mind.)
The wine doesn't have anything like the softening effect of the Lortab, either for her shoulder or her thoughts, Beckett muses unhappily. She's about to fall back into the useless circling round her own cowardice when the door sounds. She's instantly convinced that it's Castle, simply from the tenor of the knock. She doesn't want this.
But she's being cowardly enough. How much further does she have to descend before she isn't Beckett any more? Not far, says the voice in her mind. Not far at all. Can't do your job, can't handle flashes of light and sudden movement, can't tell your partner the truth. What'll it take, Detective Beckett, before you hit the bottom? You getting hurt again? Him getting hurt? Why not go the whole hog and get him killed? If you can't do your job it'll happen. If you don't tell him the truth you'll not be able to do your job.
She has to get away from that thought. She can't deal with that thought. Anything is better than that thought.
She goes to open the door.
Thank you to all reviewers who take the time to comment.
A couple of answers to guest reviewers from last night.
I appreciate that this story is slow and angsty. This is deliberately so, because I'm looking at what's in the amazingly messed-up Caskett heads early in S4 and exploring, via an AU situation, the emotions and reasons behind why they might have behaved as they did. It was a rather angsty period. The story is completely written, so the pace and speed of resolution and explanation won't change.
To the guest who believes it unlikely that Castle would have realised now Beckett's feelings at the end of S2: you are of course entitled to your opinion on my writing, which I have posted so that others can see what you thought. It was unfortunate that you didn't have the courage to log in to record your strongly expressed criticisms, because if you had done so we might have been able to have an interesting discussion on my reasoning, which I would have been happy to have.