Home for Christmas

At Christmas, all roads lead home. – M. Holmes

Part One

Rick

I don't usually come here.

And it's not because I don't like Christmas markets. Definitely not that. I love absolutely everything about this season. Always have and still do. In spite of everything that's happened.

Santa. Mulled wine. Elves on shelves. Mistletoe. Carols. Presents. Blustery weather. Candy Canes.

Even fruit cake. I love it all and I'm not embarrassed to admit it. (Mind you, not much embarrasses me.)

But that Christmas Market at Bryant Park? Just thinking about it makes me wince.

It's the one that native New Yorkers avoid because it's full of tourists. It even has a cheesy new corporate name now. "Bank of America Winter Village." Is that the best they could come up with?

The whole market is overcrowded, overrated, and overpriced, but there's this one place that sells freesia scented soaps that Alexis looooves and they don't have an online shop (I triple checked), so here I am, fighting the festive crowds trying to find this soap shop among the dozens of holiday vendors lined up in glass booths.

Alexis can't get the soap herself 'cause she's living in a coffee-growing village in rural Guatemala now, helping a Latin version of Pi build schools and teach English. Enrique. That's his name. She rolls the 'r' when she says it and her entire pretty face lights up with every mention of him. My beautiful daughter, who's always followed her heart and her ideals, even when they've led her astray.

I'm hoping they don't this time. At least this guy isn't a fruitarian, nor is he camped out on my living room couch. Yet.

Truth be told, I wouldn't even care if he was, if it meant having Alexis back under my roof.

The loft feels so empty now with all my girls gone.

Alexis in Guatemala. Mother in a newly decorated rent-stabilized apartment in Greenwich Village that somehow landed in her lap when an old friend passed away.

Kate…

I push the thought of her out of mind because I have no idea where she is. Probably never will.

The crowds blur my thoughts and I'm pleased that I'm getting better at it. At pushing Kate out of mind, that is. Even if she still pops back into it several times a day. Five long years later.

Maybe tomorrow I'll go to a smaller, more local Christmas market. Perhaps the one underneath the skylights and wooden beams of the Greenpoint Loft in Brooklyn. Or even the one that the commuters love, inside the marble halls of Grand Central. That's where I once bought that gorgeous gold bracelet for Kate-

There she is again. Worming her way into my thoughts because so much of this city reminds me of her.

I swallow down the sudden bitter taste in my mouth.

No. I'll skip that one.

The chatter of the crowds around me is a giant communal din of conversation and I catch words here and there, not just in English but in a smattering of languages, reminding me that this city really is a global mosaic. There are lots of couples taking selfies. Tourists waiting in line to skate at the ice rink. Giggling kids.

In search of my flowery soap, I ignore most of what I see and hear. But ignoring the aroma of Christmas Market food is a lot harder. It's my weakness.

And it's everywhere! People holding paper plates with dim sum rolls, chocolate crepes, and hot dogs on pretzel buns. There's a sea of paper cups in people's hands, filled with hot apple cider and mulled wine. All of it smells too good to resist and it's the booth selling the hot chocolate that draws me in like a magnet. It's the kid that I see, maybe ten years old, that's holding a cup of it with fluffy marshmallows floating on top that clinches it for me.

I have to have one. Hell, I deserve it for navigating this zoo masquerading as a Christmas Market.

So, I stand in line and wait. And wait. Ten minutes go by and the line barely moves. I'm not a patient man and when the couple in front of me starts French kissing, tongue and all, I decide to abort this hot chocolate mission. Not worth it.

I make a sharp U-turn and pivot away from the line-up.

And because I don't have eyes in my back, I collide into an oncoming pedestrian, sending the hot beverage she's holding flying right out of her hand. A flying cup instead of a saucer.

"Sorry, sorry…." I mumble, staring at the small lake of coffee that's pooling at our feet before turning up to look at the woman I've bumped into.

Kate.

What?

No.

That is not possible.

Isn't it bad enough that she's popped into my thoughts twice in the last five minutes? Do I have to start imagining strangers turning into her too?

This place must literally be making me insane. I half imagine finding myself in a Dickensian dream next, with chains at my feet, pondering a lifetime of regret.

Except that I don't regret a thing.

Especially not her.

And it's not a dream.

"Rick…" She mouths my name. Her face pale and slack with shock.

She's as stunned as I am. That much is obvious.

It's not a dream. It really is her. My wife. Casually strolling through the Bank of America Winter Village with a cup of coffee, now lying on the ground, five years after I've last seen her. Five years after she walked out of our marriage with nothing more than tears in her eyes and a black duffel bag in her hand.

She looks different. Her hair is darker and shorter than I remember. There are lines around her eyes that weren't there five years ago and…now that I'm looking right into those familiar eyes, whose colour always changes with the light around them, I also see how red and exhausted they are, rimmed with shadows so dark that even her ample mascara can't hide them.

"Why, why would you be here? You never come here…."

All the chatter around me has suddenly gone silent and all I can focus on is her. The soft words coming from her lips.

She's staring too. Her wide, tired eyes are fixated on me. Stunned.

"Kate…."

I finally find my voice and that's when she bolts.

Fuck.

Suddenly, all I see is her backside as she runs through the crowd, bumping into several people in the process.

"Jesus, lady, what the hell's your problem?"

"Hey!"

"Watch it, asshole!"

Looks like I was wrong. There are definitely some native New Yorkers in this crowd.

I run after her and watch as she knocks over a tray of hot cider that some poor, unsuspecting guy is holding. Four paper cups full of apple-y goodness crash to the ground.

The unexpected collision slows her down enough for me to catch up and hook my fingers into the back of her coat. I hold onto it for dear life and the force of my grip yanks her back. Stops her dead in her tracks.

Kate turns around, panic written all over her face as she catches her breath. "Let me go, Rick. Please….this is not safe."

All the shock and awe that made my legs feel like rubber only a few seconds ago are suddenly replaced by something else.

Anger. Raw, unfiltered anger.

I've never imagined wanting to hurt her. I'm not even sure if I'm capable of it. But right now, I do want to. I want her to feel some of the pain that I've lived with every day of the last five years.

"Oh I don't think so…." My voice is loud and unwavering now thanks to the rage that's rising in my throat. "Don't you use that fucking line on me. The I'm-doing-this-to-keep-you-safe bullshit while you're casually strolling through a Christmas market."

"The threat…it's real…" She's breathing hard. Harder than she should be after that short sprint. Maybe it's a by-product of her obvious shock.

"Spare me," I hiss back. "If you were in so much danger you wouldn't be hanging out at the busiest Christmas Market in the city." I pull her closer because I still know her well enough that I know there's a good chance she'll bolt again. "You and me, we're going to talk."

She shakes her head, eyes darting everywhere. She's skittish and nervous and very un-Beckett-like. "I can't."

I don't know what part of that sounded optional to her. "You can and you will."

She tries to wriggle out of my grasp, but I'm gripping her so hard that she doesn't succeed.

A bunch of people are watching us now. Some look concerned. Others curious.

It seems to amplify her dread and I see an opportunity to use that to my advantage.

"Do you really wanna make a scene?"

As I suspected, that suggestion makes her panic even more. She's painfully uncomfortable at being stared at.

I slide my fingers around her wrist, turning them into soft, fleshy handcuffs. "Then stop this. Act rational for two minutes and walk away with me."

I can see the wheels turning in her head. After all, I've spent many a moment watching her stare at murder boards. She's doing the same thing now. Evaluating all her options.

"Okay…" She acquiesces, sucking in a ragged breath. She even musters a phony smile in hopes of letting the concerned onlookers know there's nothing to worry about.

Together, we calmly walk away from the crowds, towards 6th Avenue.

Still holding on to Kate, I step off the curb and hail a cab with my free arm. For once the fickle taxi gods are on my side because seconds later, a yellow car pulls up.

I open the back door and step into it, tugging Kate right along with me even though she resists.

I give the driver my home address and when I do, Kate finally escapes my grasp. I quickly grab her coat in case she thinks of jumping out of the moving car.

I wouldn't put it past her.

"What are you doing? I can't go to the loft with you….can't be seen there with you!"

I shrug. "Let's try it. See if the world ends if you step back into your home."

"Rick…please."

I turn sideways and let her see my anger. "You're gonna come to the loft and we're gonna talk. You can do it willingly or I can drag you there kicking and screaming and we'll both end up in the papers tomorrow. Your choice."

She glares at me and I see the first trace of anger on her face too. "You're being ridiculous…if you don't care about what happens to us then at least think of Alexis. Martha."

If I'm being honest, the thought did occur to me when I saw her obvious fear. I'm glad that neither of them is anywhere near the loft at the moment. It makes me bolder.

"They're not your concern," is all I say.

She shakes her head and doesn't fight me when I grab her wrist again. Her hand sits limply on my thigh and I notice that she's still wearing our wedding ring.

I did not expect that and it leaves an uncomfortable lump in my throat.

I never actually filed for divorce, so technically we are still married. But I stopped wearing mine two years ago.

I also notice a new scar on the inside of her wrist. Curiosity drives my thumb to slide the sleeve of her coat up along her arm, so I can see it better.

Kate flinches and turns away from me, but she doesn't try to wrestle out of my grasp.

For a split second I wonder if it was self-inflicted, and it makes me feel sick. I let her coat sleeve cover it again, no longer wanting to see any of it, not the gold band, engraved with my name, nor the mysterious new mark on her skin.

Kate must have noticed, because now she averts her eyes and stares out the window instead.

For several blocks we sit in silence. And traffic.

A million thoughts run through my head.

Have you been here all along? In New York City, right under my nose, while I searched for you?

Was it worth it? Ruining our marriage to chase this demon?

And that other part of me, the one that will never stop loving her even on days when I wish I could, just wants to know how she is. What the hell she's been doing the last five years.

Slowly the traffic eases and our fearless driver barrels south as though he's being chased. We reach our destination before I get a chance to ask any of my questions.

Her hand has tightened into a fist and Kate finally looks at me again. "Castle….please don't do this. Don't take me to your home."

'Your home' The verbiage doesn't escape me. It's not our home anymore.

The terror in her voice is palpable and after paying the driver, I second guess myself for a moment. Wonder if there really is a risk of both of us getting killed tonight. But I tamp it down, not falling for it.

Instead, I pull out my phone while we're still sitting in the cab. I hold it up and quickly take a selfie of the two of us before Kate realizes what I'm doing.

Then I pull up my Twitter app.

Kate stares at me with wild eyes. "What are you doing?"

"If you don't come up to the loft with me, I'm just gonna tweet about you being back in town."

I almost hear her gasp before she tries to wrench the phone from my hand. But I anticipated that, and she's not fast enough.

"Have you lost all sense of self-preservation?"

"Looks like."

I open the door and tug at her wrist, pull her out of the taxi with me and wrap an arm around her waist as soon as we're outside. I can see she's about to try and make a run for it, but it's too late.

Vieslav, my doorman has already seen us, and he's full of surprised delight to see Kate.

"Mrs. Beckett!" He's smiling from cheek to cheek. I think the Polish charmer has always had a little crush on her. Who can blame him? "Wow! It is so nice to see you again! It's been so long!"

Kate's inside the lobby of the building now and she's white as a sheet. She barely croaks out a shaky hello to him.

"Castle…" She's struggling for air when we're inside the elevator and it throws me off. I wonder if it's an act.

When the door opens on my floor, she's the one who's clinging on to me. Holding on to me so tightly as though it's a struggle for her to stand up on her own.

By the time we've stepped into the loft, she's shaking so hard that she sinks down to her knees, wheezing for air.

And for the first time since seeing her again at that damn market, I'm scared.

I kneel down in front of her.

"Kate, what's wrong?"

She doesn't answer, but I see that she's trying to breathe, while her entire body is trembling. She's trying to control it and not succeeding.

And suddenly I understand what's happening.

She's panicking and hyperventilating. It's a full-blown panic attack in front of my eyes.

I help her unbutton her coat, making it easier for her to breathe. Because her fingers have gone rigid from the lack of oxygen, she can't do it herself. Then I put my hand on her shoulders and make her lower her head and close her eyes. I don't have a paper bag so this will have to do.

"Take a single deep breath, Kate."

"Again."

"Exhale with me."

"And again."

"One more. Deep breath."

I take one of her hands in both of mine to help stop it from shaking and when she finally stops wheezing and raises her head, I force her to look at me so she has something to focus on.

It takes another few minutes for her to breathe normally, and when she does she pushes herself off her knees, only to sit on the floor and lean against the wall. Spent.

"Better?"

She nods and then accepts the hand I hold out for her to pull her back up and guide her towards the sofa. She barely notices when I slide her wool coat off her shoulders and hang it over a chair.

Then I walk to the sink and pour some water into a glass. I keep looking over my shoulders when I do it, because I'm still afraid she'll run away the first chance she gets. Even though at the moment it seems like she's in no shape for it, I also know better than to underestimate her.

I hand her the glass of water and she accepts it without a word as she curls one of her legs underneath the other on the sofa.

I watch her drink it and then ask if she wants something stronger. Truthfully, she looks like she could use it.

She doesn't answer but I pour her, and myself, a generous amount of scotch into a tumbler, before sitting down next to her.

She cups the glass in her hands and then raises it to her lips, taking a large sip before turning to me. The liquor brings a hint of colour back into her face.

"Thanks."

I'm not sure whether she's thanking me for the scotch, the water, or for helping her breathe again. Doesn't really matter.

I observe her as her eyes take in the familiar sights of her old home, and wonder whether she's missed it at all.

"Your tree's beautiful," is what she says, and I realize that I'd all but forgotten about my festive decorations. I'm not even sure why I made all this effort this year when I knew there was a good chance I'd be celebrating alone. I guess I still love all of it too much to consider giving it up.

But I don't want to talk about my Christmas tree.

"Have you been here all this time?" I ask. I take a sip of scotch too. I need it.

"Here?"

"Here in New York City."

Kate sighs. Her glass is more than half empty already "No. I haven't been back here in almost five years."

"But this year you got a sudden hankering for a pretzel dog at the Bank of America Winter Village?"

She winces and stares at her glass. "No….I came back for my father's funeral."

My gut clenches and the momentary satisfaction I got from seeing her wince at my sarcasm changes to instant remorse. Jim Beckett died? How? When? Why didn't I know?

Then again, why would I know? It's not like I make it a point to read the obituaries. And It's not like I've been in contact with him.

I was during that first year after she left. I often harassed him, in person and over the phone, to tell me her whereabouts, even though he repeatedly insisted that he didn't know. So eventually I gave up and decided I had nothing else to say to him.

"I'm sorry…." I mumble. "I didn't know."

Kate wipes away a silent tear that suddenly runs down her cheek and then another one. Her grief is fresh and raw and now it's written all over her tired face. I resist the sudden urge to pull her into my arms.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Heart attack."

"I'm sorry…" I repeat even though the words ring hollow and inadequate in my ears. As if second-hand sorrow could possibly be enough for this kind of loss. I can't imagine losing my mother. Don't even want to think about the possibility.

"I hadn't seen him in almost five years….didn't even say goodbye or tell him how much I love him." A profound regret laces every one of her words and my anger-fueled need to inflict some pain on her evaporates. No one has ever been harder on Kate Beckett than Kate Beckett.

I get up to search for a box of Kleenex and hold it out to her when I find one.

She takes a couple of tissues and wipes away a fresh batch of tears with a shaky hand.

I pour her some more scotch.

"When was the funeral?"

"This morning."

I wince. It's impossible to sustain my anger. Now it's taking all my willpower not to pull her into a hug and hold on to her for…however long it takes to lessen some of her unbearable grief.

"It was risky for you to be there?"

"Yeah…" She takes another sip of scotch and it steadies her hand.

"LokSat?" I question. What I really want to ask is more about her father. Had she been in touch with him? When did it happen? But it feels like poking into an open wound. So I change the subject. For both of us. "You never caught him?"

"I did," she answers. "We did, Vikram and I. We exposed him almost four years ago."

"Exposed?"

"Remember that senator from Delaware, who resigned and then immediately disappeared into the ether?"

I think and vaguely remember some news blips about a senator who stepped down and vanished into thin air the next day. "Blackwood or something?"

"Blackburn."

"He was LokSat?"

Kate gives me a barely perceptible nod. "We uncovered a web of corruption in every level of government, but yeah…he was the driving force. Someone warned him, someone let him know that we were on to him so he got out from under us. Fled the country just as we finally had enough evidence."

"So you never made an arrest?"

"No." She exhales, eyeing her glass as if debating whether to down the rest of it in one swig, and I suddenly regret pouring her so much. "He's a wanted man who probably won't ever set foot in the US again, but no…no arrest."

"But you got him." Of course she did. She's amazing at what she does. I've never met anyone else who'll come up against countless walls and barrel right through them anyway.

"The FBI wanted to put us into witness protection afterwards."

"Wanted to?"

"Vikram took them up on it, but I didn't. I didn't want them to take charge of my life…as naïve and arrogant as it may sound, but I thought I could keep myself safe and find a way back to you."

I swallow. Afraid to ask what happened next.

But it's a moving train now and I can't stop it.

"I was driving out of Monterrey a week later when out of nowhere an SUV rammed my car off a 300-foot cliff."

My heart thunders in my chest.

Her red-rimmed eyes meet mine. "Instead of plunging into the Pacific my car got caught on this…outcropping of rock and a bunch of firefighters decided they were gonna risk their lives to try and get me out." Her gaze drifts past me, towards my Christmas tree. "They really shouldn't have."

I stare at her, as if I could make her to look at me through sheer force of will. Make her stop.

But she does neither. Look at me. Or stop.

"That first week after they extracted me from what was left of the car… the doctors didn't think I'd make it, and if I knew then that I'd be living a life where I'm too toxic to be around the people I love…if I knew, I wouldn't have fought so hard."

"Kate…stop. Please."

She lifts the tumbler to her lips but then her eyes close, as if she's on the verge of falling asleep.

The glass slips out of her hand, jerking her back into wakefulness. The liquor spills onto her jeans and little rivulets run down onto my sofa.

"Shit. I'm sorry…I made a mess." She picks up the glass, sets it on the coffee table and dabs at the new scotch stains with the tissue that I gave her a moment ago.

"Leave it," I tell her. "It's fine."

"I'm so tired," she admits. "Haven't slept in almost three days."

I cringe because now I feel guilty for giving her so much liquor. She probably hasn't eaten much, if anything, all day. Not if her father's funeral was this morning.

"Where are you staying?"

"There's a Courtyard hotel on 92nd, Upper East Side."

"So what were you doing at Bryant Park?"

"After the service this morning, I had to get out. Get some air. I walked south and kept going…"

"For fifty blocks?"

Kate shrugs. And struggles to keep her eyelids from shutting again.

If she leaves now, I'll never see her again. I know that, and I'm not ready for it.

"Get some sleep," I tell her and she pushes herself off the sofa through sheer force of will. "Here. Not at some chain hotel across the city."

"I can't stay…"

I don't let her finish. "Yes, you can. And you will."

She slumps her shoulders in tired frustration and it's so painfully obvious that she is not up for this battle.

She acknowledges her defeat by turning sideways to burrow her head into one of the throw pillows.

"Not here. I meant in a bed."

There are three queen-sized beds in the loft, two of which haven't been slept in for some time. I point that out to my runaway wife, but she's already out cold, even though she's still half sitting.

"C'mon, Kate. " I try to rouse her but I don't succeed and after two gentle attempts I give up.

So I sink back into the couch as well and I run a hand through my hair as I stare at her, while the Christmas lights on my tree blink in the periphery of my vision, oblivious to the drama unfolding before them.

Five years of nothing. Not a word or a message or a single sign of life.

But one reluctant trip to the Bank of America Winter Village later, and here she is, my Kate, asleep in my living room.

If that's not a Christmas miracle, I don't know what is.

A/N: Giant thank you to my most awesome beta-reader, WRTRD, who consistently catches all my little inconsistencies. Among other things. :)