As afternoon slowly morphs into evening, Kate grows restless again. After the hot chocolate she went back upstairs to do the routine the doctor gave her for her shoulders, and then she was so worn out she had to lie down and take a nap.
She woke in a panic, drenched in sweat, ghost fingers clawing at her throat.
The good thing is that she didn't scream and alert Castle, so he's still downstairs, oblivious, doing whatever he's been doing (writing? She keeps forgetting to ask about Nikki Heat). But now that Kate's showered and changed clothes again, all she wants to do is go outside.
Escape.
She spins around and has to catch herself to the door for balance - too fast, Kate -, grits her teeth around a curse. The nap did boost her energy levels, but not enough that she can go skipping down the stairs. And if Castle sees her like this he'll never say yes to her suggestion of a walk. He was unhappy enough when she didn't want to take Dr. Burke's offer.
It's just - if they're going to the Hamptons, and she's going to see someone there (someone Burke actually recommended) then it doesn't make sense for her to have a session tonight. There's no freaking way she's going to tell this story twice.
Taking a deep breath, Kate propels herself off the wall and makes her sedate way to the stairs, takes the steps one by one. It's infuriating, especially for her, but the thought of fresh air and nighttime in New York City is enough of a reward to keep her in check.
"Castle?" she calls when she doesn't find him in the kitchen.
Her only answer is a loud noise coming from his bedroom, followed by a few interesting swearwords. Beckett knits her brow in concern, takes a few steps forward - and stops. The open shelves. She and Castle had a lovely, lovely time using those shelves in ways the designers had certainly not planned for, but it's ruined now by the sick, fascinated look on Tyson's face as he played her the tape. It's almost as if he was in the room with them, watching.
"Castle," she calls again, her voice rough with frustration. She wants to go in there; she wants to make sure he's okay, but her feet won't move.
"Yeah, yeah," he answers at last. He comes out of his room rubbing his head with one hand, triumphantly holding up something black and tiny in the other. "I got it, Beckett!"
She peers at his fingers, reaches out when she can't determine what on earth he's talking about. What is-
"I found the bug under my bed," he says, something proud and accomplished in his voice. Kate can only stare, her gut churning. "Took me a while to dislodge it, but the hero prevailed in the end." He looks at her, waiting for congratulations maybe, or at least a smile, and he realizes after a handful of seconds that neither is happening. "Kate?"
Breathe. She has to breathe. "Let's get out of here," she says. She meant to say it lightly, tease him into agreeing, but instead it's a quiet kind of despair infusing her words.
Rick drops the hand holding the bug and stares at her. "We said we'd leave tomorrow morning."
Right, the Hamptons. "I know," she says, has to swallow to push the next words out. "I just mean - let's go for a walk. Okay? Just - I need fresh air."
"Oh." His eyes dart from her to the window, the deep night sky, and back. "It's gonna be pretty cold outside, Kate." She says nothing, just stares at him. He surrenders quickly enough. "All right, okay. Um - you don't have a coat, do you? Just that flimsy little jacket I bought you yesterday-"
"Just give me one of yours, Castle," she sighs.
He nods and disappears back into the bedroom. Kate averts her eyes, tries to run a hand through her hair - but she's tied it into a solid knot at the back of her neck.
Shoes. She'll need shoes. She doubts Castle's kept any of her heels, and even if he has she probably wouldn't be able to walk on them right now. She'll just have to go with the flats he bought in DC.
She finds them by the door, slips her feet inside. He's right. She's going to freeze.
She doesn't care.
"I think that's the smallest coat I have," he says, coming back into the living room. He's holding up a dark grey one that looks like wool, and thrown over his other arm is a thick jacket that she remembers seeing on him. She loves that jacket.
"Thanks," she says, taking the coat and sliding it on. It's way too large, of course, but there's something comforting about being able to wrap it snug around her body, adjusting the collar around her neck. She catches a whiff of his scent and almost smiles until she realizes that there's something else tangled with it, a flowery fragrance that can only be a woman's perfume.
"Does it fit okay?" he asks, not looking at her, fumbling for his phone and keys and wallet.
Kate breathes in. Breathes out. He wouldn't give her a coat that Kyra'd used. He wouldn't. Maybe the garment just hung next to Kyra's clothes for too long. The thought doesn't really help with the sharp ache in her chest, but she has to focus on her objective here. A walk, fresh air. She wants it. "Yeah, fine," she says.
But when they walk out of the loft she pretends not to see his outstretched hand.
Castle watches her burrow her hands deeper into the coat's pockets, the way she ducks her head with every gust of wind. His first instinct is always to reach out, tuck her into his side, protect her from the cold - but it's obvious that tonight she doesn't want that. She walks a step ahead of him, lost in a world of her own, and he can only stare and wince every time a car honks and her body flinches.
They walk two blocks like this, the knot in Castle's chest ever tightening as he watches Kate struggle with the city sounds, and then she stops abruptly, rests her back to the nearest shop window. A bank, some part of him notices even when his eyes sweep anxiously over Beckett's slim form, try to figure out what's wrong.
"Just give me a minute," she says, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. Her scarf is coming loose, but the bruises around her neck are less striking in the city lights. Only the purple ones stand out, like some kind of artistic tattoo.
His own comparison disgusts him.
Kate lets out a long exhale and he glances up at her face. She looks more relaxed than he'd expect after watching her shiver and startle for twenty minutes; he studies her more closely, realizes she seems to be timing her breaths. A technique she learned with Dr. Burke, maybe? Curious to experience whatever she's doing, Rick closes his eyes and listens.
There's the screech of tires from cars going too fast; the muffled sounds of people talking into their phones; the click of heels against the sidewalk; the steady thump of a bass line somewhere; the occasional blare of a horn. He's used to it - it takes him an effort to even notice the soft cooing of pigeons overhead - but he can imagine that for her, who's heard nothing but silence and things he doesn't want to think about for the past two years, it must be overwhelming.
He opens his eyes again and looks at her, wonders if she's closing her mind to the noise and then slowly letting in again - one by one, layering the bass line over the pigeons, the hum of engines over the bass line, the high heels over the engines. Whatever it is, it seems to work, because the next time a driver honks close to them Kate doesn't jerk. She just smiles, her lashes slowly separating, and there's such relief in her eyes that he forgets to breathe. "I can do it," she murmurs, sounding so stunned, so happy. "I can do it, Castle."
He's not sure what she means, but he's never doubted that Kate Beckett can do anything she sets her mind to. "Of course you can," he rasps, and she literally beams at him. He doesn't know where to look. She makes a sound, a breathless laugh, he realizes dazedly, and then she steps in close, their coats touching as she rests her forehead to the side of his neck.
He lifts a careful, careful hand, and curls his fingers around her elbow to keep her there.
He makes them lasagna for dinner.
Kate's cheeks and nose were red from the cold when they came home, and he's somehow managed to talk her into warming up in the shower. He felt pretty chilled himself; Beckett is so thin the wind must've sawed through her very bones.
Hence the lasagna. It'll make her warm if all else fails, and he wants to get as many calories into her as he can.
He's layering pasta over the meat preparation when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He sighs and ignores it, finishes what he's doing first. Once cheese has been grated on top of the final layer and he's closed the oven door over the lasagna, he washes his hands and digs his iPhone out of his pocket.
He expects it to be Lanie - she's been trying to call him all afternoon - but instead it's Esposito's name flashing at him on the screen.
Rick considers for a second, checks the time. A little after seven. The guys will be at the precinct if they have a case, checking phone records and finances, knocking down alibis, and Castle feels a pang of longing at the thought. What he wouldn't give for things to be normal again, he and Kate at her desk working together to uncover the truth.
But it's a silly wish. He can't turn back time, can't undo Tyson's work.
He's got no idea if Kate even wants to be a detective again.
The phone buzzes in his hands and he nearly drops it, then thinks - get it over with. Esposito knows what trauma is; he'll understand. He'll be mad at first, but he'll understand.
"Castle," he answers.
"Richard Castle," Lanie's expressive voice snaps on the other end. Shit. "You're not taking my calls, but you'll pick up for Javier?"
He so can't do this right now.
"Never mind that," she goes on, and he can picture very clearly the flash of her dark eyes. "What the hell are you doing? We had to learn through Victoria Gates that not only Kate was alive, but you were with her in DC? And you couldn't be bothered to call?" He squeezes his eyes shut. It's not like that. "What is this, Castle, your attempt at punishing us? Because you were right and we were wrong, and we didn't believe you? I gotta say, I didn't think you were the kind to hold a grudge. To keep something like that to yourself-"
"Lanie."
"She's our friend too, Castle! Or have you forgotten that? Are we all traitors now because we didn't buy your crazy theories about getaway cars and choppers and escapes to foreign countries?"
Not so crazy, he almost says, but that wouldn't help things at all, and now Lanie's voice has moved to hurt rather than angry. It makes him sincerely regret that he didn't take the time to call the 12th. "I'm sorry, Lanie. I wasn't - I swear I wasn't keeping it to myself or trying to punish you. I just...Jordan called me at two this morning and I couldn't believe it. I needed to see it for myself. To see her first, before I could do anything at all."
He's wandered into his bedroom while talking, and he pauses in front of his closet, tries to remember. Right. Packing; he needs to start packing.
"You could've called then," Lanie observes, but her tone has lost most of its sharpness.
"Ah, by the time they let me see her-" his mind stumbles on the memory, and he has to resist the urge to run upstairs and make sure she's really here. "Jordan had already called the 12th, and I just... We hadn't talked in so long. I had no idea what to even say." He grabs a travel bag from the top shelf, needing the distraction, and throws a pile of shirts in there.
"Could've started with, Hi, I'm in DC, and guess what? Kate's alive," the ME answers sarcastically, but he can practically hear her soften, the frown easing off her face.
Lanie was devastated by Kate's disappearance, he remembers with a twinge of remorse. Then again, weren't they all? "I'm sorry," he repeats, running his fingers through his hair. "I wasn't thinking straight - wasn't thinking at all - and I should have called you." She makes a soft sound of acknowledgment, and he tilts his head, takes out a few shirts out of the bag when he recalls how full his Hamptons closet already is.
"I'm sorry too," Lanie murmurs after a long pause. He wonders if he's heard that right. "I - we all owe you an apology, Castle. God, I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now, but if it helps - I probably feel worse." Yeah, no. Doesn't help.
"I'm just trying to focus on Kate," he says honestly. "Be what she needs."
There's another silence, the weight of things unsaid. "How is she holding up?" Lanie asks at last.
He hesitates, grabs his favorite jeans. "I'm not sure. Always so hard to tell with her, you know? Physically, she's very weak, but nothing she can't heal from." The purple, finger-shaped bruises on her thighs he caught a glimpse of this morning flash before his eyelids. He swallows, pushes the vision away. "She's holding on," he murmurs, his heart breaking when he thinks of it.
"Sheer will, huh?" Lanie says darkly, and he almost smiles at that, the shared knowledge between them. Kate Beckett and her indomitable spirit.
"You know it."
"And - mentally?" It's obvious from the ME's tone that she does not want to be asking that question.
"She doesn't want to see anyone yet," he answers, skirting the topic as much as he can. "She's - shaken, Lanie. She jumps every time someone touches her, and I've never seen her so-" He can't quite find the word for it. She's not broken, no, but...
So close.
"Can I talk to her?" Lanie asks tentatively, and he's a little surprised, given the start of their conversation, that she's not downright demanding it.
"I'll ask," he says, and he turns away from his clothes, goes back into the living-room.
He jogs up the stairs - it takes some of his breath away, which is a clear sign that he needs to start exercising again - and knocks at her door.
"Come in," Kate's voice invites, and he slips into the guest bedroom.
She's in bed, curled under the covers, although she sits up the moment she sees him. "It was warmer in here," she explains, a near blush on her cheeks. Like she needs to justify herself to him.
He attempts a smile, knows by the feel of it that it's not quite right. She looks so small, so vulnerable, her eyes too wide in her pale face.
"Who's that on the phone?" she asks, nodding at him.
Oh. He almost forgot. "It's, ah, it's Lanie. She'd like to talk to you."
A curtain falls over Beckett's face, all the softness gone in a moment. "No."
He takes his hand off the receiver to relay her answer, but hesitates. He doesn't really owe Lanie anything, not after the way she and the boys treated him when he was doing all he could to find Kate. But he sure wouldn't like to be in the ME's shoes right now. He's the lucky one here - the one who gets to see Kate and feed off her reality. "She thought you were dead, Kate," he points out gently. "And you're her best friend."
Beckett shoots him an exhausted, angry look, and he's about to speak again - to say what, he has no idea - when she suddenly holds out her hand. "Give it," she rasps when he dithers, and he gives her the phone, holds his breath.
"Hey, Lanie," she murmurs, pressing the iphone to her ear.
He should leave, give her some privacy. Some part of him is vaguely aware of this, but his feet are rooted to the spot. He can't hear anything that Lanie's saying, but he can see the tears that slowly fill Kate's eyes.
Oh, oh, bad idea. Why does he always make the wrong choices?
"Me too," Kate husks, her hand flying to her eyes, hiding from him. "I missed you too." Another pause, and then, "No, please - Lanie. Don't. Come on, you're gonna make me cry." She huffs a trembling laugh and Castle fists his hands, wants to touch her so badly. "I know. I just... I'm not in the best place right now. I'm taking baby steps, okay?" Lanie must say something sweet, or something funny, because a smile breaks out like sunlight over Kate's face. "Yeah. Yeah, for sure. I look forward to it," she answers, and although her voice is the perfect blend of hesitant and excited, he can see something breaking in her eyes.
She ends the call and he stands there like an idiot, watching as she stares at the bedspread, gathers herself. "Castle?" It's a mere whisper, but she casts a quick look to him, so brittle, and he sinks to his knees in front of her.
"Yeah?"
"Could you give me a hug," she says, like she doesn't have the strength to make it a question. "Just. Hold me really tight for a minute."
He blinks fast to keep the tears at bay, and he reaches out for her, carefully wrapping himself around her. Her arms bracket his waist and he feels the soft puff of her breath as she gives in, collapses into him. He squeezes her - tight, she said - and the tension slowly leaks out of her, her forehead sinking into his shoulder.
"Good," she murmurs, almost to herself. "That's good." But he can still feel a warm dampness slowly soak the fabric of his shirt.