Castle 4x17 Moment: You get cute when you get angry... but not when you get angry with me
"What did you mean by 'cute'," Beckett asked out of blue, after my mom's one woman show encore production was over.
"What?" was all I could come up with.
"When we were going through the evidence, looking for cameras, you told me 'You get cute when you get angry', and I'd like to know what you meant by that," she said.
"I also said it's not when you get angry at me…"
"Why would I get angry at you? I'm asking, I'd like to know. Your answer won't make me angry. Probably. Your evasion definitely will," Beckett said, with her usual moment-ruining logic.
But she doesn't seem angry. Like, she's cute right now. Incredibly so. But not because she's angry. If I had to describe it, I'd say she's maybe a little tipsy, as we are on our second bottle of bubbly goodness. Maybe a little shy. And her eyes convey a determination that's only visible if you know how to look: her entire posture says the opposite.
She's too relaxed, meshing into the couch, our tights ghosting one another, her hand still on top of mine on my knee.
"I know you said you'd protect me from the big bad wolf, use your gun on my mother if needed," I start, hesitantly. "But do you promise not to use it on me?"
"Quit stalling Castle. For once, can we actually have a conversation without running in circles and leaving things unsaid?" Beckett asks, and I can't avoid thinking that's rich of her. She's the one always avoiding any real talk.
I'm about to fight her on it, when I realize just how counterproductive it would be: she's here, next to me, actually making physical contact with me, and wants for me to give her an honest response. The finger pointing can wait. I've been given a chance to be honest and blunt for once, and I'm not going to waste it calling the kettle black.
"I mean I love how your eyebrows come together, your lips stretched thin, your amazing hazel eyes get smaller and your back curves a bit, as if you were gathering strength to beat up an imaginary boxing bag," I said.
"Some would say it's creepy that you can describe with such detail what I look like when I'm frustrated," Beckett answers.
"Why creepy? Why can't it be nice?" I said. I know I mentally promised myself not to start a fight with her, but she can be damn obtuse sometimes.
"You didn't let me finish Rick," she answers, and the use of my given name is not lost on either one of use. "I said some would think it's creepy, but I think it's cute, for a lack of a better word. You're the wordsmith after all."
"Don't sell yourself short Kate. We both know you'd give me a run for my money if we ever play Scrabble," is what I come up with as a response. What am I supposed to answer when the woman of my dreams is trying to open up, but is struggling with it? Walking on eggshells is a skill I've perfected when I'm around her, but I do not want this moment to end. I really, really don't.
"You're right, I probably would. But knowing many words does not mean I'm good at putting them together when talking about my feelings. As you know, I'm not easy to get to know, and I don't always let on what's on my mind," she says.
"I know that Beckett. And please, don't take this the wrong way, because I'll wait forever. But sometimes, I really wish you didn't feel like you had to hide your thoughts when you're around me. God knows I should filter myself most of the time. But it's hard to do so when I'm around you," I said.
"Like you don't filter yourself when you're around me?" she asks, challenging. Frustration is simmering to the surface, and I want to tamper it down. For both our sakes: If I'm reading her correctly, and I usually do, she's not far behind when it comes to being frustrated right now.
"What do you want from me Beckett?" I ask, exasperation dripping from my voice.
"I want for you not to filter yourself around me. I want for you to push back. I want for you to flirt with me again, as you did at the beginning. I want for you to say we could debrief each other, or that we would be great together," she responds.
"But you see Beckett, I can't just flirt with you anymore. I can't treat you as if you'd be another one of my conquest, just a bleep on the long string of non-comital relationships I've had," I say, looking down at our hands, afraid to make eye contact. She holds my hand a little tighter, as if encouraging me to go on, and I do: "You mean too much to me for me to be that smartass who got on your nerves from the moment you picked me up at the launch party. I know he's still there. I don't think I'll ever fully rid myself of him. But that smartass respects you too much. He loves you too much. And he promised to wait. And I'm trying. So you see, I can't be that smartass around you, afraid you'd think a fling is all I want. But I don't think you'd let me be your partner if I actually wore my heart up my sleeve all the time. I don't think I'd be able to take it if you got scared and ran off to hide in your dad's cabin or worst, in a nowhere relationship with a man you don't love."
She' silent for a minute, maybe longer. If it wasn't for the fact that her hand is still grasping mine, I would be certain I had pushed too far. But maybe she is getting ready to bolt. I did, after all, tell her I love her. And she's not dying. Neither one of us is, unless of course, she shoots me. Or unless she runs without looking back. Her walking away right now would probably damage my heart as much as a well-placed bullet would.
I'm contemplating removing my hand from underneath hers when I see a tear roll down her cheek. That, I must say, I didn't not expect. Running, shouting, pocking, sure, those were expected. Her turning around and kissing me was the dream scenario, yet even though track record shows my dreams come true, I wasn't truly expecting her to kiss me.
A tear, however, is so out of character that I don't really know what to do. I feel like a deer caught in the headlight, but at the same time, I know I'm not. And to make it all the more out of character, she's not brushing the tear away. On the contrary. She closes her eyes and another one goes down.
"Kate?"
"Thank you," is all she says, before taking her shoes off with her feet and bringing her legs up on the couch, placing her head on my heart. I can't avoid describing her as a tiny version of the all-mighty Kate Beckett.
"What are you thanking me for? And why are you crying? Did I do something wrong? I meant it, I wasn't trying to push, I just… well, I got frustrated, because here you are, questioning me for filtering myself around you. And when I chose not to do so, you cry. And I don't know how to interpret those tears. I mean, I'm pretty sure the last time I saw you cry was when you shot your mother's killer. And if these tears mean that you're saying goodbye to what we could be, as you said goodbye to the possibility of getting answer back then, I need to know, so I don't embarrass myself. Beyond the point of no return, I mean. Though well, it could be argued I've crossed that line. More than once."
She again doesn't answer. Instead, begins thumbling with a button in my shirt. Inhales, exhales, and buries herself even deeper into me.
"Thank you for loving me Castle. Thank you for loving me so much that you'd rather hide your feelings than pretend anything other than us giving it our all would be enough," she says. "And the tears are a good thing, I promise. I'm not saying goodbye, not at all. If nothing else, I'm saying hello to the possibility of us Rick."
I know she has more to say. Or at least, I hope she does. So I wait her out.
Once again, she inhales, exhales, and pushes herself just a little bit more into a tight ball. I think she's small enough right now that I could actually wrap all of her with my left arm, and feeling incredibly bold, I do so.
"I didn't lie that day in the hospital: when I first woke up, it was all a blur. I knew something had happened. For the first time in a long, long time, I felt my heart was whole, which is absurd when you think about it. After all, it had literally been shattered by a bullet less than 24 hours before. Every pore in my body told me my life had taken an irreversible turn, but Josh was there. Montgomery was still dead. And I know why you did what you did in the hangar, and I love you for having done it, but it was all too raw, all to there, when you came to visit."
"Love?" I'm not sure if I say it out loud or in my mind, and I'm about to recoil when she holds on to me, keeps me rooted in place.
"Yes Rick. Love. As I was saying, I knew something had changed, but I couldn't place my finger on it. It wasn't until I got to my dad's cabin, when the pain medication was no longer bogging my brain and I stubbornly thought I could do without the sleeping pills that I had a dream about it," she says.
"You had a dream about your shooting?" I ask, unsure as to what else to say.
"No. I had a nightmare about my shooting. But it then morphed into a dream: I saw you, on top of me, asking me not to let go, telling me you loved me. When I woke up, I was ready to dismiss it as a dream, but the more I though about it, the more the pain around my heart eased. I know I should have told you I heard you, or that I had remembered my shooting, or something. But I also knew I had things to work on, to be able to fully accept everything that happened that day. And I'm tired of waiting, of keeping you at arm's length, of not allowing myself to let your words, such as you calling me cute, wash over me like a balm. Because you see, Rick, I think you're cute too. And I don't want for us to just flirt anymore than you do. I don't want to hide in nowhere relationships anymore, and I don't want for you to feel like I'm going to bolt any time you say anything honest. But you just told me you love me, I hope you understood that I love you too, but just in case, I do, I really do love you. The world didn't end. No one is dying. I'm still here. You're still here. And hopefully, we'll both be here in the morning."
"Wouldn't you be more comfortable in a bed?" I ask, unwilling to let her go but also knowing this position will hurt in the morning.
"Maybe tomorrow. But right now, I just want to be here. With you, in you, surrounded by you. You make me feel safe Rick. Your arms around me in the cemetery gave me both strength and cover. And that's all I need right now, if that's ok with you?"
"Yes, of course," is all I can say, before grabbing a throw from the back of the couch and surrounding us both with it. As I allow Morphea to put me under, I can't help thinking back to what she said, about too much reality and fairy tales being possible. That she's here, with me, on my couch, beats any fairy tales ever written.