Treading Water
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The Limey 4x20
"Weird. We're usually more in sync than that."
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The weekend is awkward. They don't go into the city for shows or casinos, but they also don't talk about how everything will work. If it is still working.
It seems kind of obvious to Kate it isn't going to work.
He's told her everything about Mr Smith, as the man called himself, and she's made a tentative truce with him about the conditions of the deal. She's churned up, still processing, she wants a chance to hash it out in therapy before she yells at him anymore. Castle, for his part, has kept his requests to a minimum, only asking her twice if she'll abide by the rules of his deal.
You won't investigate.
She can't say that. She can only say, right now, we have nothing to go on. But they might have something, now that she knows about this man, Smith, now that another player has showed up on scene. And Castle clearly knows that's where this is going.
They both know.
They get on a plane and nothing has been resolved.
X
Castle is deeply uncomfortable.
The flight attendant is flirting with him and Kate doesn't even seem to notice. (Which is worse. If she didn't care, then that could be construed as trust, but not even noticing that an attractive blonde is pressing her breasts forward into him and smirking as she pours him a third glass of wine, well—)
It would help if he could reach over and close his hand around Kate's, or lean in and brush the hair behind her ear and ask her if she's okay. If they're going to make it. But she hasn't reached for his hand, or anything of his, since their fight.
Her hands are folded in her lap, her eyes on the window. Far away. Her knuckles are blanched and her back very straight, and he's painfully aware that she's barely holding herself together.
That she's wounded.
Because of him.
After a lot of strained smiles and pointed comments, he stops trying to brush off the flight attendant—he just doesn't have the energy for more politeness or witty exit strategies, either way—and so of course he winds up with her name and phone number on a cocktail napkin on his tray.
jacinda txt me 415-555-HAWT.
He's numbingly astonished by the fact that the last four digits of Jacinda's phone number somehow spell out... is that hot? and so he takes out his phone and opens the keypad. He's trying to puzzle it out when Kate does finally look at him.
Her eyes drop to the cocktail napkin, the purple felt ink blossoming on the white.
She blinks. Her eyes shutter. She turns away.
He says nothing.
There ought to be no need to explain.
x
Of course, she's called in for a body drop the moment they get his Ferrari out of long-term parking.
She could scream. She wanted to use the commute home, trapped space, no witnesses, to force them to a reckoning. Instead, she takes the details from dispatch and asks the operator to mark her as enroute, not yet responding. What else can she do? It's her job.
"You're on call?" he says quietly.
It's the first full sentence he's spoken to her since carrying her bag to the car. You ready to go? Is this their relationship now? Still, she nods, her own throat closing up again the moment she starts to even think about trying to win him over.
He doesn't want her to die; she gets that.
She doesn't want her mother's killer walking free. And clearly he gets that. Or else he wouldn't have hidden all of this from her.
Somehow, some way, Castle has made himself a part of it. He did long ago, really. But now, he's made himself part of her mother's killer walking free, and not a part of getting her mother justice. She would never have imagined they'd be on opposite sides of this. Never.
The tears knot in her throat.
"I didn't know you'd be on call," he says. "You didn't say when I asked you to come with me for the weekend."
She clears her throat roughly even as his speed picks up; her eyes automatically scan the traffic for potential hazards, cop instincts kicking in hard. (One foot in the job, knowing a body is out there with her name on it.) "You didn't ask me to come with you," she reminds him. It sounds like an accusation rather than the tease she meant it to be.
Had she meant it to be?
"I... no, I didn't ask," he breathes. "I never do."
She flinches, and the silence stretches thin, fragile.
It's all so fragile.
His head bobs, his hands grip the wheel. Another uptick on the speedometer. "I can take you to the scene."
She opens her mouth to say no, to remind him that this isn't something she wants her coworkers catcalling her about, but she snaps her jaw shut.
What even is this?
"Okay," she says.
It could be a scary-brave first step.
Or.
It's proof that this—all along—has been nothing at all, not even gossip fodder.
x
During the case, they're so out of step. Maybe it's the Colin Hunt of it all, maybe it's all that's frothing between them which remains unresolved, or maybe she's upset about the cocktail napkin still crumpled in his pocket.
He doesn't like the way Colin Hunt looks at her, talks to her, doesn't like the way the Captain makes moon-eyes over Inspector Hunt either, like he's some foreign god ready to bestow his gifts on the department. Castle tries to keep himself scarce rather than rubbing salt in a wound, and Kate is, as she is so good at, aloof.
He knows it's a coping mechanism. He knows it.
Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
When he returns from lunch, she's snappish and weird, like Colin Hunt has made a pass at her and she's taking it out on him. He's mostly certain she wouldn't, but maybe that one percent uncertainty shows in his face because she doesn't seem to want to talk to him directly. Gates dismisses him out of hand, as she always does, but it's disconcerting to get it from all corners: from Hunt, from the Captain, from Kate.
She hatches a plan with the inspector without even asking him—not that she has to run her plans by him or anything—and when she walks out in that dress, looking like that (and yet she hesitates; she looks so very vulnerable)—
He's the first on his feet, heading her way. The hesitation makes him want to hide her. Or show her off. Or... make her feel so good her confidence blooms again. "Kate."
Her cheeks flush, she glances past him to Esposito and Ryan, ducks her head. He wants to grasp her by the hips and press her body to his, but instead he halts just before her. "You—" His breath catches in his lungs.
He hears Colin Hunt's voice behind him, calling for her. Detective Beckett, there you are.
She stiffens.
Castle tilts his head. "You... going somewhere?"
"Hunt got us tickets to the embassy formal. Our suspect will be there."
"Ah." He steps back, tries not to want her so much. "You look beautiful. In case that wasn't clear."
Her eyes are soft when she looks at him, but it's only a moment. Then she's taking Hunt's arm and walking away from him.
x
Castle bangs his head agains the brick wall of this case all night. While she's out there in that dress on Colin's arm. While she sips a drink and leans on Colin's arm.
He hates himself for it, but he phones a friend—the flight attendant who dropped her number on a cocktail napkin. And not in retribution—not exactly—but because he's spent far too long miserably searching the random elements of the case, the things that don't fit, the 'odd socks' as Detective Nikki Heat would put it, and he thinks these numbers are related to airport customs codes.
(Does he want confirmation of his hard work or attention for his genius?)
Jacinda is put off by his text of W4-1949-898 but she does text him back. It's a consulate's tag for a diplomatic pouch, and it was flown on Royal Eastern Airlines. Is this really what you wanted to ask me?
He doesn't take the bait. He thinks about it, and he hates himself for that too, the brief fantasy of illicit conversation with someone who wants him. Who chooses him. Someone fun and uncomplicated.
But he rallies quickly, does a bit more googling to be sure, and he shows up at the precinct ready to get back in the game.
He'll fight for her, if that's what she needs, what she wants. He won't stay where he's not wanted, but he will make damn sure that's what it is before he gives up.
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"I can't believe you shared confidential information with... with our flight attendant," she says. He looks momentarily ashamed, but she knows it's not about the case, and that feels infinitely worse.
Everything feels worse.
Shouldn't she feel electric, giddy, in love? Shouldn't it be easier than this?
"I was getting nowhere with the NYU subscription databases. But I had a little clue, just enough, to get an idea that—"
"Castle." She can't believe he doesn't get it.
"What?"
"You can't do that. Gates would have a fit and she already hates you enough as it is."
His throat is mottled, his eyes slide away from her. They're having a low-key fight in the middle of the break room, and yet all he does is fiddle with the espresso machine. "Even if it helps solve this case? It's more than you and the good Inspector Hunt got at the consulate."
She flinches. "That's supposed to make this okay?"
His shoulders slump; he sets the espresso down on the counter, drops his hands. "I wanted to help," he says. His voice is plaintive, immature.
Sad.
"You wanted to help."
"I... might be jealous. A lot jealous."
She grabs his arm to force him to look at her, and his eyes won't meet hers. So Kate slides between him and the espresso machine and his chest hitches; his eyes finally can't look away. "You have no reason to be jealous." But do I?
He rubs the back of his neck. "But I really messed us up."
"I don't think it's just you," she sighs. "Two people in this relationship."
A quick flash of something, but he hides it. She can't read him again.
Talk about walls.
x
Kate smiles politely, uncomfortable, flattered, tempted, but Castle is right over Colin's shoulder down the hall. Just the sight of him and she finds herself saying no to drinks.
Castle is ending his phone call right as Colin walks away. Castle jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the disappearing inspector. "Where's Scotland Yard off to?"
"He, um, has a flight to catch. Castle, do you have a second? We need to talk."
He flinches. "Here?"
"It's neutral ground," she tries.
"It is not," he growls.
"I mean," she falters, "we both... work here."
Castle shakes his head and rubs a hand down his face. "No. This is your territory; you are queen here, you reign. This is the farthest thing from neutral ground." He takes a deep breath and continues on before she can apologize. "Which means you're as deeply uncomfortable about this as I am, because you want everything in your control. I get it."
Kate squeezes her elbows against her sides. "I kind of hate that you see a therapist now."
He almost laughs. He looks at her and sinks down into his chair at her desk. "Okay," he says more quietly. "Unfair advantage and all, what did you want to talk about?"
"Us."
He braces his hands on his knees. He maybe knows far too much about her for her comfort—but she knows the same about him. And he's so certain it's bad news that his body language gives him away.
"Colin Hunt asked me for drinks," she says.
Castle jerks back.
"I said no. Did you say no to Jacinda on the phone just now?"
"I told her thank you for her help, but I'm in a relationship with someone," he murmurs.
Is that a no? But she nods, looking down at her lap. Her hands twist for a moment before she can stop them. "I think you know that I can't not investigate my mother's murder—"
He sucks in a breath to argue, but she holds up a staying hand.
"Please. Let me finish."
He still opens his mouth, like he might bulldoze her anyway.
"Castle," she says sharply.
Instead of the words he might have said, he lets out a shuddering sigh. Manages not to speak.
"That's something we're going to have to work on," she mutters, scowling.
The corner of his mouth twitches, the blue in his eyes brightens.
"I can't hold back from investigating my mother's case," she restates, "but I agree that there are no leads on my case. It's not even active; all the leads dried up. And you and I both know how the NYPD goes after someone who shoots at one of their own."
He nods.
"So. I admit that I had a bad... few moments, when I went after the fire inspector, and I've had to make amends with him. I won't undo that work, nor do I think—after a lot of therapy, I can say this—I don't think there's anything to investigate. At this time."
He pulls a face; she can see him trying to battle a victory cry or a fist pump, something immature, something which would, actually, wound her. It takes everything she is to admit there's nothing left; she's out of leads. This case, like her mother's, is unsolved. A constant state of limbo. And for him to rejoice over that condition—
No. Don't celebrate it, Castle.
He's still, he's quiet.
"Please don't read this as me stopping," she says carefully. "The moment a new lead falls in my lap, Castle, I will be on it."
"I—" He corrects himself, two fingers over his mouth.
"I will never give up on justice for my mother," she says. "And you know that. It's why you hid it from me for so long."
"Yes," he whispers. "That's... yes, that's it."
"That's not okay with me."
"It's not okay with me either," he murmurs. "If that's any consolation? I didn't like doing it, I didn't feel right doing it. A lot of factors were at play, not the least of which was you not talking to me all summer—"
"I—"
He holds up a quelling hand. "My turn."
A laugh falls out of her.
He smiles back softly. "Even with all that, I was justifying it to myself. I took your life in my hands, because I couldn't trust you with it. And I hope that you see what's behind that, Kate. If I'm afraid for your life..."
"Then you don't trust me," she says simply.
"No!" He pulls back, but immediately leans in, lowers his voice. "That's not it."
"You just said it was. You couldn't trust me with my life. So you took it upon yourself."
"But that's not the same as not trusting you. That's more like the opposite—like absolutely trusting you. I trust that you will never let this go, you'll never stop. You'll run yourself into the ground, get yourself killed before you give up. I trust that."
She raises an eyebrow. "I'm impressed by your verbal gymnastics there, Castle, but that's not how that works."
He slumps. "I know. But I don't see those two things as the same. No one else I'd want with me going up against everything we've gone up against. My trust in you is absolute." He lifts his hand, elbow braced on the armrest, his fingers reaching out to her.
She glances around the bullpen and carefully lays her palm to his. Her fingers curl down to his wrist beneath the cuff of his dress shirt while his thumb rubs the protrusion of her bone.
A soft silence falls over them. His thumb caresses her wrist; she runs her fingers up and down the inside of his. Their eyes hold.
"You didn't want to get drinks with Colin Hunt?"
She shakes her head. "I only want to get drinks with you." She sighs. "If I'm getting drinks, that is."
He swallows thickly, nodding. "Yeah."
"Are we... getting drinks, Rick?"
She watches the top of his head as he's bent over, his face nothing more than lashes and shadow and the hawk of his nose. It hurts, how she loves him. Should it hurt like this?
"Is, uh, getting drinks a euphemism for being together or... what." He clears his throat and lifts his head. "I need that to be stated outright. I can't keep going on like..."
"I said I love you," she whispers. Her breath like arrows. "What does that mean to you?"
"I don't even know," he croaks.
"Then buy me one of your expensive bottles of white wine and you'll find out."
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