Spirits
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21 December 21
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She sleeps on her stomach now. It means her sleep is light, surface, and she wakes the moment the bed dips.
"I finished it," he says, voice rumbling in his chest from above her. Kate cracks open an eyelid and finds her husband perched at her side, practically on top of her in the bed, an electric smile on his face. "I finished the article."
She clears her throat, wipes a hand down her face. "Good, good job," she croaks. Article. Oh. "Did you stay up all night?"
"It's only four in the morning," he whispers, pushing a kiss to her eyelid that makes her reluctant to open them again.
"Only four," she murmurs. "You've been sitting at the desk the whole time?" She shifts and becomes a little more aware, sliding a hand out from under the blankets. "It's cold. Crawl under the covers with me."
He does easily, his toes freezing as they touch her ankle. He lays on his back at her side and she scoots in a little, just enough to touch her shoulder to his.
"Did you email them?"
"I did. Whoever is running the Wounded Warrior blog is up too. They've already posted it."
"Already?" she croaks. "Wow, fast."
"They really liked it. I missed my deadline; they were waiting. But I had a lot of research lying around because of Rook."
"Mm."
Castle suddenly shifts to his shoulder and lays on his side, his hand coming to her back. He kisses her. "I'm going back to Nikki Heat next year."
"You are?" Rook and his early journalism career, the reporter embedded with the troops and his resultant PTSD have buoyed Castle for the last couple years, kept him going, worked out his issues. "Will you write Rook again?"
"Probably not," he admits, sliding his fingers under her shirt. "But this charity drive for Wounded Warrior Project has really... dredged the bottom of things, I guess you could say."
"Dredged," she prompts, blinking past the dryness in her eyes. Did he say it was four in the morning? Are they really having such a vital conversation at four?
"Stirred things up, got things moving again. Think it's been stagnating for a while now, and this was what I needed, this organization, these people. You can't be stuck in your own mire when you're talking to a guy who lost his leg below the knee because of an IED in Afghanistan-"
"Is that Owen?"
"Yeah, Owen. And then Frank with his hand prothesis-"
"They both have service dogs, don't they?"
He half-shrugs. "Yeah, I think. A couple of them do. But I mean - something about finally sitting down and making myself write that blog post about PTSD and combat trauma, even if it's from only my perspective, a civilian ride-along... it's done me some good."
"Not just a ride-along." She tries to say. It's a hum and a nod mostly, her lashes framing the picture he makes, half sprawled in bed, his hand on her back occasionally lifting to gesture at the darkness. Animated again. He's talking about Owen and his positive attitude and how he's being deployed again because he considers it his duty, even deskbound, his honor to be-
"Rick," she interrupts, fighting the crash towards slumber. "Rick, I love you."
He turns and looks at her, words caught, a little like she's yanked on his tether. He smiles and leans in, kisses her other eyelid so that she feels heavy. "Love you back, Beckett. Sleep. You need your sleep. Won't wake you again."
"S'okay," she mumbles. "Wanted to hear."
"Shhh," he hushes, another kiss at her eyelid to keep her under.
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She reads his article at breakfast, makes him get out of his chair and come closer so she can throw her arms around him. He chuckles and pats her back, telling her she's overplaying it a little, but he has to admit he loves her admiration, her pride in him.
Has to admit he needs it.
He nudges her to nap that morning while he and Carter play with the felted nativity set. She actually falls asleep in their bed, which is a step up from the chair, and he has to wake her for lunch. Carter pitches a screaming fit in his high chair when Kate tells him she can't pick him up, but Castle gets it settled, cloisters himself with the baby in his room until he stops fighting it and takes his own nap.
Kate looks a little worse for wear when he emerges, her body curled on the couch, the blanket pulled up to her shoulders. He sits with her and turns on the television, surfs until they find a James Bond marathon, settles in. He has a hundred things he needs to be doing, but he doesn't feel like doing them, not when she's sad because she can't pick up their baby.
After an hour or so, she changes positions and lays her head in his lap. He drops his hand to her hair and sinks his fingers in the rich, silky feeling of the strands. She falls asleep midway through Timothy Dalton's film, which he has to admit might be a mildly deserved criticism of the man's portrayal of Bond.
He turns off the television and tilts his head back on the couch, Kate a compact ball half in his lap and the baby monitor giving him the soft breathing sounds of their son from the next room.
When he turns his head to the windows, he sees first their Christmas tree and its smudge of red and white lights, and then the city outside. Light has leached from the sky, making it a dead blue, and a haze has formed over the windows. Frost on the glass, muting the world beyond.
He falls asleep like that, his face turned to the world.
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Rockefeller Center teems with people, a seething throng of visitors, tourists, and natives. The tree dominates the scene with angels blowing trumpets down a straight line of sight to the massive Christmas display. This year the buildings as backdrop are lighted in blue and gold, while the twinkling gold lights on the tree are looped in an ever-tightening gyre to the top.
Ninety-four feet of Norway spruce, like a holiday Godzilla looming over those fleeing below. He read online yesterday that it has fifty thousand lights, give or take a thousand, and despite their LED nature, the power required to light the thing is enormous. The crystal Swarovski star crowns the height of the Rockefeller tree while streams of ribbon and ornaments crowding every last needle make it all seem a little preposterous.
To the adults. To the native New Yorkers, or the Scrooges of the world.
But not to an eleven month old.
In Rick's arms, Carter is open-mouthed with wonder.
Watching his son take in the whole atmosphere, absorbed and overwhelmed by the tree and its dazzling lights, Rick can't help but be convinced once again. Convinced of the magic, the joy. Can't help but believe again.
Kate's face is upturned as well, her cheeks lit blue and gold by the lights. Her breath clouds the air, her scarf cozy around her neck. She finally breaks the spell the tree holds over her and looks at him.
He shifts Carter to his other side and wraps an arm around Kate's waist, bulky through their coats. They're well back from the throngs, the line to skating rink which winds around, but it's all still touching them, affecting them.
Her eyes are slow to adjust, to lose all that light. She leans her head against his shoulder and watches Carter now, the baby's craning neck and rapid eyes as he takes it all in. His sudden and uncharacteristic silence.
They'll walk over to Saks and take Carter through the window displays, do the whole thing. But this moment, this second, their son's faced filled with awe-
Carter lets out a startled breath, as if coming back to himself, and then he begins to clap.
He's laughing too, applauding the tree before them, bobbing up and down in Rick's arms as if some amazing feat has been performed just for him. The world alight just for him.
The amazing thing is, people passing them take up the cheer, the praise, a smattering of applause in this one small corner of Rockefeller Gardens, the joy being passed one to another like lights coming on in the darkness.
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