Castle finds himself at her door only a handful of days later, unable to stay away even with the promise of a movie night at his place occurring in only a matter of weeks, another bouquet of flowers in his arms. It's not his style, showing up unannounced, with flowers no less, but after he'd texted her the address for the crime scene that morning and she had shown up with fresh coffee, her usual smile of greeting on her lips had fallen away, dissipated from her face the second her eyes had landed on the body.
"Kate," he'd murmured, attempting to block her from seeing the middle-aged woman slumped in an alley, her body slit from the drag of a knife, too much. Too similar.
She had dropped the coffees.
"Come on, let's go," Rick had prompted, gently attempting to turn her away with the hand on her arm, but Beckett had shaken her head, released an exhale through parted lips that trembled.
"No, no, you have to – you stay. I'll just – I'm going to take a breather," she had told him, forcing a strained lift of her lips before snagging the hand at her elbow, giving his fingers a squeeze before turning away, shoving her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket and striding away with her head down.
That had been hours ago.
She hadn't come into the precinct after that, hadn't responded to the text messages of concern he'd sent her, and he'd grown worried. And yeah, maybe he had missed her for those few hours too.
Apparently, he can't even make it a day without Kate Beckett around anymore.
Castle knocks, waits patiently to hear the soft padding of bare feet on the other side of the door, the momentary pause before she eases it open, and… she's been crying. A lot.
"What's wrong?" he asks immediately, his mind jumping to each possible worst case scenarios, even though he already has his suspicions, dropping the flowers in favor of stepping towards her, lifting a tentative hand to the tearstained skin of her cheek.
"Nothing," she chuckles, far too raspy for his liking as she catches his hand, smoothes her thumb to the inside of his wrist before guiding it away from her face.
But her eyes are bloodshot, the surrounding skin swollen and red, and like hell is this nothing.
"Those for me?" she inquires, nodding to the brilliant bouquet of rich colors from the street vendor that made him think of her, that had ended up on the floor next to his feet.
"Oh, yeah." Castle quickly bends to scoop up the bundle of carnations and lilies with his hand, dust off the cellophane before extending the bouquet to her. "I just thought you might - I was kinda worried when you didn't show up today."
Kate accepts the bouquet with a sigh, her fingertips caressing petals that he envies, and steps back, allows him to come inside. "I'm sorry, I should have texted you back, let you know I wasn't feeling up to it today."
"Are you sick?" he questions, studying her face while he follows her to the kitchen, but she doesn't look physically ill like she had at the crime scene, just… sad.
"No, I'm fine," she assures him with a pathetic attempt at a reassuring smile. She still has the old set of flowers he had brought her over a month ago, the shriveled up stems and petals making a mess atop the island, and he watches her gingerly remove them, replace them with the fresh batch.
"No, you're not," he argues quietly, studying her under the soft rays of light bleeding into the kitchen, the beams of afternoon sunlight curling in her hair and brushing kisses to her hollow cheeks. He ventures closer to graze his knuckles to the slash of bone, watches her lashes fall to lie against her pale skin, the black fringe a sharp contrast the porcelain flesh. "What's wrong, Kate?"
"You're a detective," she scoffs, tilting her head away from the touch of his hand to open her eyes to the flowers. "You already know."
"I shouldn't have told you to come this morning," he sighs, dropping his arm to his side and ignoring the protest bubbling on her lips by opening his own. "A few years ago, I was working a case and the victim was a seventeen year old girl, a student at Columbia, flaming red hair and bright blue eyes. She could have been Alexis all grown up and I had to rush to the nearest trash can the second I stepped on the scene, spent five minutes puking up my breakfast."
She shifts closer to him, her fingers hooking at either side of his waist, and he lets her, welcomes the tentative fit of her body resting against his, her head at his shoulder and his chin at her crown.
It's no longer such a foreign sensation to experience the innocent warmth of her against him, to embrace it, find sanctuary in her and offer a haven in himself in return.
"It's not her, I know it's not her, but just seeing that woman stabbed in the alley – it felt like seeing those crime scene photos all over again," Kate breathes, her fingers fisting in the sides of his shirt, and Castle bands his arms around her back, holds her tight enough to feel the uneven rise and fall of her ribcage scraping against his.
"I manage to forget sometimes," he confesses, dipping his head to touch his lips to the line of her hair. "That you live with it every day."
"Like you do," she shrugs, but he bites his tongue to refrain from expressing how he believes there's a difference.
The grief of missing his daughter will never fade, but at least he had gained the small comfort of knowing that the man who had killed his little girl had suffered the fate he deserved. The bastard who murdered Beckett's mother is still out there and it eats at him, has been gnawing at his guts every day since he had snuck down into archives and read Johanna Beckett's file.
Her mother deserves justice and Kate deserves the closure that comes with it.
"Can I stay awhile?" he murmurs, lowering his lips to her temple, dusting a kiss there and inhaling the intoxicating mixture of vanilla and cherries, the oil of skin and distinct scent of Kate Beckett buried beneath it all.
Her lashes flutter against his chin as her head lifts, her gaze glittering but assessing, searching like she's seeking evidence, a motive behind his actions, but he was still balancing on his side of the thin line between them. They had agreed to move slowly, but they were still moving, working towards being more, and he considers brushing his lips along her skin an innocent form of progress.
"Sure. Coffee?" she replies, swaying in his embrace, her body angling towards the kitchen, but Castle is hesitant in releasing her, splaying his hands at the small of her back and closing his eyes when Kate's forehead falls once more to his collarbone and her face crumples against his shirt.
"You're okay," he murmurs, senselessly, but seeing her like this, so helplessly torn up over a murder that too clearly resembled her mother's, slices at his heart and all he wants is to fix it, to help her heal.
Like she helps him.
"It's going to be okay," he promises her, cupping her shoulders in his palms and fitting his cheek against hers.
She had warned him not to touch her mother's case and the last thing he wants to do is hurt Kate, defy her trust, but he was good at his job and all he needs is a chance to prove it to her. And if he comes up empty, if the case is as cold as ice and truly too lost of a cause to pursue, then he would leave it alone.
In the meantime, he had to try. For Kate.
The heat of her breath burns through the fabric of his shirt as she nods against him.
"I know," she murmurs, nudging her nose to his cheek, resting there for a long moment before her lips quirk against the skin of his jaw. "Thanks, Castle."
But he already hates himself a little bit for this entire plan.
Beckett knows when the assistant at Black Pawn who handles her fan mail contacts her with an "urgent message" from a 'Martha Rodgers', that it can't be good, not when she realizes who the woman is.
Kate had learned the basics of Rick's backstory quite early on – a deceased daughter, a mother whom he no longer had any contact with, and a father who had never been in the picture to begin with. He had only spoke the name once, but she remembers it – Martha. Martha Rodgers, who is trying to contact her the day before the book party, persistently calling Black Pawn until Natalie is requesting to put the older woman through to Kate's cell, informing her that Martha is insistent, that it's important and that it regards her son, Richard Castle.
She takes the call.
"Katherine Beckett, darling, it's such a pleasure to speak with you," the woman greets over the phone, her voice vibrant, warm like the summer, but weary like an incoming storm.
"Ms. Rodgers, it's-"
"Oh, dear, no," the other woman huffs. "Please, call me Martha."
"Martha," Kate corrects, standing in line at a nearby coffee shop, waiting to place an order for Castle's morning caffeine fix. "I don't mean to be rude, but why are you calling me?"
Martha sighs, long and tired, some of the poised sophistication leaving with the breath. "It's no secret that you are close with my son, Richard."
"We work together," Kate replies, but her teeth snag in her bottom lip, because that's not the whole of it anymore, is it?
"Yes, I'm aware, and I… I by no means wish to bother you, but my son and I – I haven't spoken to him in so long. I have no way to reach him, to know how he's doing, if he's even alive at times," his mother admits and dread churns in Kate's stomach, swirling thicker with every word out of Martha's mouth. "My greatest fear is learning that he was killed in the line of duty, or, hell, hit by a taxi in the street, and never having the chance to… Roy tells me he's doing well when he has the chance. Though, I try not to call and inconvenience him too much either, but the last time we spoke, he mentioned you."
Kate holds her breath. "Oh?"
"You make my boy happy, apparently," Martha muses and Kate feels the warmth climb her throat, flush her cheeks. "I simply wanted to thank you for that."
"Martha," Kate sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and curling an arm at her stomach; it feels wrong, talking to his mother when he's always bristled so harshly each time the woman has ever come up, but she needs to know. Has to know what it was that tore this mother and son apart, what has Castle holding a grudge that Martha has obviously tried and failed to overcome. "What happened between you and him? Castle won't talk about it, but he told me about Alexis and it sounds like the three of you were close before."
His mother is silent on the line for a long moment and Kate's running out of time, moving closer to the counter, and she's worried the other woman may have even hung up-
"When Alexis was… after we lost her, Richard just couldn't cope," Martha begins, no eloquence to accompany her words this time, no brilliant warmth, only an ache that Kate can feel through the phone. "He completely shut down in a way I never could have anticipated and he swore that he didn't blame me, but I think part of him always did, always will, and I accept that. But it made the resentment he held towards me, towards Alexis's murderer, towards the world, impossible to breach."
She'll grab his coffee later, for now, Kate steps out of the line, drifts towards the opposite side of the café, where an open booth against the window calls to her while Martha seems to collect herself, picks up the story once more before Beckett can even think to respond.
"Grief is… a visceral thing and I never expected the wound of losing a child to leave him, but I suppose I never expected to lose him to the depths of it either. I always thought we would eventually learn to live with it together, but I lost my granddaughter and my son in the same day. It's been thirteen years since Alexis died, twelve since I last saw Richard, and I'm… I'm not doing well, Katherine," his mother reveals on a shuddering breath while Kate's lungs go still. "I realize it's easier for Richard not to see me, perhaps it's healthier, but if I could just – it is and never will be my intention to take advantage of you, dear, but if you could simply mention-"
"I have a better idea," Kate cuts in softly, but she's not sure it's a good idea at all.
In fact, it's a sure way to lose him just as thoroughly as his mother has.
