Treading Water
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Rise 4x01
That wall inside? It won't always be there.
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The thing about pressing pause on finding her mother's killer is that it presses pause on dismantling that wall she's built inside her. She could have been talking about relationships in general, or Josh-like potentials waiting in her wings, but he wants to think it's about them. (He hopes it's about them.) And there can't be a them if the wall...
It's a compromise, at best, which leaves them both treading water.
So when he tells his daughter that she was right, he does need to grow up, he knows the price of his hard-fought maturity: Kate's life.
It's enough for now, but it's not. It's not. He wants... everything he watched slip from his fingers when she lay dying on the grass of a cemetery.
So he calls her.
"You still up?"
"What do you want, Castle."
The way she has now of holding her jaw when she talks to him, as if she's biting back what she really wants to say. He can see it even over the phone, that press of lips, the way she clenches her teeth, the slight narrowing of her eyes. They're not yet back to normal, not yet easy with each other.
"Castle," she snaps.
"Yeah, yes, it's me, of course. I thought—you know—out of leads, but that doesn't have to be the only way we talk to each other."
There's silence on her end.
He swallows and steels himself. Someone has to be brave. "I meant." He meant relationships are work, and doing the work doesn't mean working a case, but if it's not about them... "Meet me at the Old Haunt in an hour."
"Castle..."
He waits, expecting an excuse but wishing, just once, she would meet him halfway.
"Just one," she murmurs.
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When she arrives, almost precisely on time, he realizes (too late) she's struggling. That bruised look is back around her eyes, as it was the day he brought her flowers in the hospital ICU, and her clasped hands in front of her belie the fact that they're trembling. It's late, later than either of them should be out on a school night, but that was his point.
Break the mold, so to speak.
Get out of their usual rut before they can fall back in it.
She sits next to him on the high stool but there's a faint hitch in her movement when she leans into the bar. He pretends not to see it, but he takes note, filing it away. Beckett still hurts.
Was her reluctance to have a drink with him more about pain medication? He would've thought that would be done by now, but he doesn't know.
She doesn't talk to him.
She didn't talk to him for months.
He has to break that cycle before it can begin. "Are you on pain meds?"
She startles so hard that she almost falls off the stool. He grabs her at the last second, drags her towards him even as she gives a soft whimper.
"Beckett... Kate, seriously what—?"
She's clutching the edge of the bar so tightly her knuckles blanch. She slowly shakes her head, lips pressed together. Her nostrils flare as she inhales, and finally she lets it out again. "Guess maybe I should be, huh?"
He eases his grip only when it appears she can, in fact, keep herself upright. "Was asking because of the alcohol. You—hesitated when I invited you here."
Her eyes slide away from his. She swallows. "You didn't exactly invite me. You demanded."
"Ah." He did, didn't he? "It felt necessary."
"Necessary?" she croaks, stiffening.
"You aren't particularly willing these days."
His bartender sets down two tumblers, scotch on the rocks, his usual, but Kate holds up a finger to stay him. "Can I have a white?"
"Coming right up." He gestures to the two glasses but Castle shakes his head for him to leave it. He'll drink it, if he has to.
Force him.
"I'm not particularly willing?" she says, her shoulders rounding in. "If I remember correctly, I had to hunt you down at your book signing."
"Can we not do this?"
She stiffens. Immediately jerks a hand to her chest and hisses.
"Try the scotch," he tells her, nudging the drink her way. "Nice heat to it."
Her hand trembles when she reaches for the tumbler, but she takes a neat swallow and replaces it on the bar. Just as his bartender returns with her wine. She smiles but it doesn't reach her eyes. The bartender retreats, and it's just the two of them at the bar.
"If we could dispense with the games, the careful double-talk?" he asks. Taps two fingers on the bar in a nervous gesture. Smooths the bar to prevent from accidentally calling the bartender over. "Can we be real."
"This is about as real as it gets," she says dryly. Sips her white.
"Ah. A joke about the wine?" he smiles.
She looks at him with almost a smile. It will work.
If she does, in fact, talk to him.
"What did you want to know?" She glances down to the glass, rubbing her thumb against the line of the wine. "Within reason."
He wants to know what she remembers, but he's not sure she can handle it. Or that he can either. "I want to know what your favorite color is."
"You know my favorite color."
"Purple," he smiles.
"Mm." She takes a mouthful of wine and lets it sit a moment before swallowing. He shouldn't be paying so much attention. "Yours is blue."
"It is," he grins. He's ridiculously happy to hear it. He won't add that he's noticed she likes it too. On him.
"Is that what you commanded me here for?"
"Did you obey?" he squeaks.
She laughs. It's a real one and it feels so very good.
"It is, actually," he admits. "And to ask your favorite director."
"Movie director?"
"For a start."
"Miyazaki," she smiles.
His eyebrows raise. "Studio Ghibli?"
"Mm."
"Seriously?" Is his voice squeaking?
"Oh, the many layers—"
"Right, right, Beckett onion."
She puts the wine down and looks straight at him. Her tongue comes to touch her bottom lip and suddenly his chest is too tight.
"Well, Castle?"
"W-well?"
"Are you gonna peel or what?"
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