Treading Water
x
The Blue Butterfly 4x14
"You two are a walking fairy tale."
x
She tells herself that she's not nervous, that upping her therapy hours in the weeks following the anniversary of her mother's death date is only natural after all she's been through. She tells herself that Castle meant every word he said that night when she could finally breathe without hyperventilating. She tells herself that spending the weekend only barely responding to his texts doesn't constitute a mental health crisis.
She tells herself that she's not waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But when he shows to her fresh murder scene with a coffee just for her, the relief is so great she can't speak. She's slow to rebound, and he's quick to theorize, flashy loop-de-loops of imagination, filling in the gaps of their factual knowledge with fairy tale. Give him an inch, he'll take it a mile...
Her coffee tastes richer, their byplay is fraught with unspoken declarations, and the story he weaves seems meant for her alone. Even the case takes on a significance she never lets herself assign to murder.
Is it any wonder that when they walk out of Joe and Vera's apartment, her hand drifts towards his, bumping, nudging, until at last two of her fingers hook around two of his? Is it impossible to believe that she would ask him to come by tonight after she's filed the paperwork only to have him insist on following her back to the precinct where he makes himself a nuisance but also her coffee until the case is put to bed?
(Yes, she's thinking about his bed. Her bed. Any bed.)
She tells herself this is the natural way of things, the order of operations, that what comes after isn't the end of their story but a change in trajectory. So when he follows her onto the elevator, brooding on nostalgia and gumshoes, Dashiell Hammett and Humphrey Bogart, what she doesn't need him to expound upon is the other half of the story: the blue butterflies, the mysterious dames, the hard-won loyalties which sweep a film noir out of the alleyway and set it, gleaming, on the sidewalk to romance.
"I changed my mind," he says abruptly.
Her head whips around.
His fingers twitch beside hers, but he doesn't take her hand. The elevator dings at the basement level. "Let's go to mine instead," he murmurs.
For a heartbeat, she doesn't remember how to step off the elevator. He has to touch the small of her back and nudge her across the threshold into the garage.
"Take me home, Detective," he says softly.
"Am I... dropping you off?" she croaks.
A shake of his head. "I can make us dinner, Alexis and Mother will be there, low stress, no assumptions."
Her cheeks flame; she turns her head away, slow dogged steps to her police unit.
No assumptions. What if she wants him to assume?
And worse. What if she can't withstand another night of assumptions?
x
She has been to family dinner at his loft more than a few times now, and they are used to her, but also not. She wonders if Rick has told them about her panic attacks, told them how she rocked on the floor terrified for three hours before finally crawling into his lap and crying herself to sleep. She wonders if they look at her differently. Or if they should look at her differently because she is damaged, at her core, in a way that shouldn't be ignored.
She is dangerous to them. Not just because she carries a weapon and can't make her brain stop responding as if she is under threat, but also because there really is a threat to her life, a credible one. That reality exists; it is not just her hyper-aware brain.
Thankfully, Alexis is a bright and delicate distraction, like a butterfly that won't land long enough for Kate to identify it, only occasionally touched by its beauty. His mother is no butterfly, but equally difficult to pin down, and their dinner is a game of musical chairs where Kate is the only one to remain seated, as if held there by invisible strands of politeness-grown ivy, twining around her arms and rooting heart.
They serve dessert—they are always serving her dessert over here; is it that noticeable? how her ribs and hip bones protrude when stress strips the meat off her bones? She licks her fork for the last of the dark chocolate cheesecake, smiling at Alexis in hopes of winning her over. Alexis keeps subtly (read: not subtly) checking her phone, a flash of pink in her cheeks as her attention is recalled to the last of their dessert.
Martha doesn't even sit down this time; she sips wine and takes one bite of Rick's over-large piece before bundling up in a multi-colored coat and scarf and heading out for her night on the town. Something about a student play or wrap party—and it's not forced cheer for the sake of a quick excuse, just effusive warmth, as if to dispel whatever chill Kate has brought in with her.
Alexis takes her dishes to the sink as Kate tries to clear the table, tells her she's a guest (even though Castle made it clear she's no longer a guest but more like a member of the family). Castle doesn't contradict his daughter, but he does clear his own place and nudge Kate to sit at the bar to 'keep him company' as he relinquishes Alexis from dish duties.
It's only loading the dishwasher, it's only light conversation about the abundant free time Alexis finds herself uncomfortable with, her attempts to fill her hours with volunteer work and internships, and even as Alexis herself leaves to go out with friends, they are still talking about his daughter: safe neutral ground, no one can get hurt, only Castle's mourning for a nearly-empty nest.
It can't last, of course. And it doesn't. Just long enough for Kate's heart rate to slow to a normal rhythm.
x
Castle wipes down the area around the sink with a sponge and rinses it slowly in the sink. Catches a glimpse of Kate across the island and sees her put her elbows on the counter, take a sip of her water, a far more mellow look in her eyes.
"I need to tell you," he says quietly.
She comes instantly to attention; he winces to see the mellowness evaporate like it was never there.
But he has to. "Last weekend when you asked me to go? I need to tell you how much I appreciate getting those texts from you."
She chews on her lip, cheeks flaming bright red.
He forges ahead, nodding to himself, squeezing out the sponge with a fist. "Yeah. It was important to me—it is important to me—I know that now, that communication is one of my things. So a response back every time I texted you—"
"You deserved far better from me—"
"No," he says abruptly. "I didn't. The truth is that you asked for space after a really difficult and painful night, you were still dealing with anxiety and the panic attack, and instead I texted you almost every hour for forty-nine hours. Despite your entirely reasonable and perfectly acceptable request—"
"Forty-nine?"
He blanks for a second.
"Forty-nine hours?" she rasps. Her lips are formed in a slash as if she's trying not to... cry?
"Uh. Yeah."
Oh. No. That was a laugh. She was trying not to laugh. And she failed.
"Sorry," she gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth and smothering what might actually be giggles. He's going with hysteria to name that emotion, because surely she's not amused. "I'm sorry. It's just a very specific time call. The weekend, you might say, an even forty-eight hours to indicate a two-day period but—"
"It wasn't... it was actually longer than two days, considering I left at like three that morning, and so I —"
"You counted the hours I... we were apart."
His mouth opens. Closes. He takes that pause to—as the therapist suggested—consider his words before he speaks them. Rephrase his first inclination. Speak his truth, not the personas he hides behind. "You said I'll text you and it was so similar to this summer that I panicked. So I texted you first in case something might have been different this summer if only I had pushed harder or—I panicked. And violated your request for space."
She nods, her eyes serious. "I hear what you're saying. I hear you saying that you were afraid I would push you away again, and I respect your—"
"Please don't do the therapy phrases with me," he sighs. Flings the sponge into the sink, chest expanding with a breath.
Her face falls.
He comes around the counter, trying not to beg her for what she can't give. "I... I would like to have a real conversation about this."
She looks at her hands.
"I need to know—" Castle stops himself abruptly, a dawning light bulb over his head like he's the dumb coyote in the cartoon. Duh. "You were having a real conversation. And I just shut you up. Again. Wow." He drops onto the bar stool, groans. "God. I can't manage to shut up long enough to honor your agency."
Her head jerks up. "My agency."
His head bobs, throat closing up.
"Castle," she snaps. "What does that mean."
He waves a hand, a faintness in his extremities. "You know..."
"I do not know. What does that mean, what are you referencing? My agency. What has the therapist said to you."
He shakes his head, drags a hand down his face. Shame, weakness, dismay, regret, so many emotions rise to his surface. The therapist has been digging with him; he's a writer, he gets character development, he understands, at his core, how human behaviors are formed. And still, his own elude—
"Castle, I needed you to text me all weekend. To reassure me I didn't ruin everything. And. You made me feel seen."
His eyes arrow to her.
She reaches over and clasps him by the forearms. "I don't know what you're doing in therapy, but I do know that therapy can twist things up. Make you feel shitty until you can process things."
"Yeah," he croaks.
"You say agency like... That weekend, you weren't forcing yourself on me, Castle."
He swallows.
Her jaw drops. "Castle!"
"No, I know. I know." He makes a helpless gesture and rises to his feet to stop her indignation. "It's not physical. It's an emotional thing, Kate. We've been talking in therapy, and she's not wrong, look. Look, she's not wrong. There's a way you can look at this that is really problematic. I followed you around for a year without your consent."
"You signed the forms," she says, confusion crossing her face.
"Not mine. Yours." This does not feel good. And her ignorance of it makes it feel worse. "I got the mayor to shoehorn me onto your team. You said no. And I made you."
Her mouth parts, but she's speechless. So was he, when he looked back at it. But what he sees in her eyes isn't astonishment; it's awareness.
"Shit," he breathes.
She catches his elbows before he can lose his feet, eases him to the stool again. "Okay," she says carefully. "In a certain way of looking at things, Castle, you were forced on me." He groans and she grips his elbows tighter, a near-painful pinch. "But didn't I tell you, didn't I admit—and you know I hate to admit when I'm wrong—I got used to you pulling my pigtails?"
"Yes. But we're adults, not children on the playground. Even children get disciplined for pulling pigtails, Kate. And an adult, a mature adult, respects boundaries."
"Okay," she answers him. Again, she uses this slow, calm voice, measured, even. She sounds like she does when she's talking to victims—
Oh.
"Rick, you can take the time you need to process. Whatever your earlier behavior, or current patterns about respecting others' boundaries, I want you to know that no one has ever so relentlessly made sure I don't feel abandoned."
His head comes up.
"You make me feel wanted," she whispers. "And that is no small feat."
"Kate." At her name on his lips, her cheeks flush pink. Her eyes are a warmth he leans out after.
She leans in to meet him. Her lips brush his, their eyes still open up until the last second, a thump of his heartbeat, and then she's kissing him.
And he's lost.
It's far more luxurious for all the torment, far more emotional than he's ever experienced in so chaste a kiss. But she cups his face in her hands and her mouth is tenderness and love and he knows now.
He's certain.
She wants him back.
x