Author's Note: The second chapter dealing with 2x3 "Inventing the Girl."
Then Came Love
Chapter 8
The next day, Kate found that the tragedy of the Jenna McBoyd case could get even worse than it already had been because they managed to track down her phone and on it was the recording that corroborated Wyatt Monroe's story, ensuring his release, and also pointed a finger at Jenna's real killer—her own husband.
God, Kate really hated this case.
Travis McBoyd held out, avoiding admitting his guilt with increasing desperation, but then broke down and admitted what he'd done, admitting too, albeit unwittingly, how he'd been manipulated by Sierra into believing the worst about Jenna.
Kate observed him with a burgeoning sympathy she almost never felt for killers but Travis was so young, little more than a boy, and he was almost as much of a victim as Jenna herself. Victimized by Sierra's scheming and insinuations—and what could he know of how cut-throat the modeling industry could be? For a moment, she almost wished she could keep the whole truth from Travis but she couldn't do that; Jenna deserved the truth, to be remembered as the victim that she had been. Jenna was the important one; how much the truth would devastate Travis could not be a consideration.
She went back and let the start of the recording play out, let Travis hear Jenna's distraught voice, as if speaking from the grave, talking about how much she loved him. And watched as Travis broke down into ugly sobs.
She felt a surge of emotion, a knot forming in her throat, tears pricking at the back of her eyes on listening to the recording again. The first time, she'd been in her cop mode, her mind playing out what had happened, how this recording changed their case, but now, hearing it again, she focused on the desperation in Jenna's voice. Jenna had been so alone and then faced the ultimate betrayal by the one person she should have been able to trust most. It was all so senseless, so unnecessary. Kate blinked hard but to her horror, felt the threatening tears start to form and hurriedly sped out of the interrogation room. No, oh no, she could not do this, could not break down like this, not in the box or the bullpen! It might be a tragic case but she dealt with tragedy every day and managed to get through it—except not anymore, apparently.
She was peripherally aware of hearing Castle's startled voice calling her name but she ignored it, paused by Ryan's desk to tell him hurriedly, "Take Travis's confession, will you," and then she walked, no, fled, in the direction of the women's restroom—as a cover—but then at the last moment, detoured and hurried around the corner, taking refuge in the little back room storing some old case files. It was out of the way and almost always empty since people rarely needed the files kept here.
A choked sob escaped her to her horror—she didn't cry like this and certainly not over a case—but it appeared that was one more thing that was different now. She shut her eyes and pressed a hand to her lips as if to keep any more sobs from emerging, trying to regain a modicum of control over her rioting emotions.
But she heard in her mind the memory of Jenna's voice on the recording, so pleading, so vulnerable. I just want to go home…
Jenna had just wanted to go home, to Travis, but instead Travis had found her in his own vulnerable state, primed to lose control thanks to Sierra's deviousness. And Jenna was the one who had paid, as would Travis, for the rest of his life now, having to live with the knowledge that he'd killed the wife he loved for nothing, lost control for one fatal moment and now, his life was ruined.
A few tears escaped, seeping out from her closed eyelids, and she hurriedly swiped them away, sniffing, but then to her dismay, heard Castle's voice.
"Beckett?"
She stilled but another little sniff escaped, sounding abnormally loud to her own ears, and then she heard him again, from just behind her. Shit, he'd found her. She should have known he would look for her and not give up easily.
"Beckett?" She sensed his nearness and then felt a tentative touch of his hand on her shoulder but she refused to turn to look at him, didn't want him to see her tears.
"I'd rather be alone," she forced out but knew the moment she spoke that talking had been a mistake. She tried but her voice came out sounding off, tight with betraying emotion, and she knew he heard it, felt it in the way his hand tensed a little on her shoulder.
"Kate…" he breathed, so quietly it was just a wisp of sound, but even so, it sent a fresh spurt of emotion rocketing through her. Kate. He'd used her first name, as he almost never did. The last time he'd used her first name had been That Night—she remembered, the vivid memory flashing into her mind—he'd groaned her name, Kate, as he'd hit his climax.
It was that thought, the memory, that demolished her resistance so she didn't protest when he gently turned her to face him, nudging her head to rest on his shoulder. She would blame it on her moment of weakness but at the time, she couldn't remember the reasons she'd decided to try to keep some distance between them. He was just so close and his shoulders were so broad and somehow comforting so she allowed herself to rest against him, hid her damp face from view in his shoulder.
It wasn't the first time he'd held her, obviously, but it somehow felt as if it was. His hands were light, tentative, as they rested on her arms, not even putting his arms around her back, as if he was unsure how much she would allow. But he was warm and solid and strong—and he smelled good—and somehow, it was what she needed right then. He was what she needed.
He didn't say anything, only held her lightly, and it was enough. Slowly, she felt her emotions start to settle, at least enough for her to feel somewhat more in control, although she dimly supposed that her sense of emotional control was mostly an illusion. Another side effect of her condition, the rampaging hormones, that she supposed she would have to become accustomed to or at least, resign herself to.
And oh, she was still in Castle's arms. Now, belatedly, she felt a shock of surprise at how comforting it felt. Comforting, another word she hadn't thought to use for Castle before. She remembered, all too well, the passion she could find in his touch, his closeness; she hadn't expected she could find comfort in his touch too.
The thought provoked another swell of emotion, something dangerously close to affection blossoming inside her. No, oh no, she couldn't be thinking like this—and yet, how could she not like him more? Even if she had been able to downplay the thoughtfulness of his bringing her dinner as his doing his duty to the baby, there was no way to attribute his comforting her like this to the baby. Her emotions wouldn't affect the baby. And yet he'd stayed and held her through this absurd bout of tears.
If she looked up right then, standing as close as they were, he would be close enough to kiss. The thought seared her mind, her lips almost tingling just at the thought—no! She forcibly slammed the brakes on this errant train of thought and sternly did not look up.
She straightened up, taking a careful step back before lifting her head, as he immediately let his hands fall. Absurdly, she was immediately aware of the loss of his warmth, the emptiness where his hands had held her arms.
She felt herself flushing a little as she forced herself to look into his face, tried not to get distracted by his mouth. "Sorry. This case… it just got to me," she said inanely.
"Yeah, it's a tough one," he agreed quietly.
"I just… I keep thinking how terrible it is, for Jenna and for Travis too, to make a mistake in the heat of the moment and then have to pay for it for the rest of his life."
He flinched almost imperceptibly and she stopped, distracted by a spike of concern.
"What is it?"
He blinked and she watched as he visibly smoothed his expression into blandness. "Nothing. You're right, it is terrible."
"It's not nothing," she contradicted. "What is it?" He'd been reacting to her words, she was sure of that. What had she said—that it was terrible that Travis made a mistake in the heat of the moment…
A mistake—wait. The word—and his reaction to it—came together and she abruptly remembered. That Night, after… well, after, she had said that it had been a mistake and he had flinched then too. A mistake in the heat of the moment—oh.
And now, she was pregnant. A consequence that would change the rest of their lives.
No, oh no, surely he wasn't—could not be—equating what she'd said about Travis to their situation. It wasn't the same, not at all. Travis had killed his wife!
And she… did she regret what had happened, what was happening?
No, she thought slowly. She might feel a little regret over the way it had happened—sex out of anger—but no, she didn't regret it, didn't regret the baby. This situation wasn't anything she would have planned but she had faced unexpected changes in her life before and this one—well, this one was a good thing.
And to be going through this with Castle—somehow, that too was a good thing.
"It's fine, Beckett, really. I'm just being silly." He managed a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
It wasn't fine but the words to tell him she knew what was bothering him and, more importantly, that she didn't regret the pregnancy, didn't think of the baby as a mistake—she inwardly flinched at the thought—wouldn't come. She didn't know how to talk about this, wasn't someone who was used to talking about emotions at all.
She had to try, had to say something. She opened her mouth but drew a blank and, as usual, fell back on work instead. "Oh, I should mention that Jenna will get justice in other ways too. I talked to Teddy Farrow this morning, told him what Sierra had done to Jenna, the drugging and the stalking, and about Wyatt Monroe's behavior. And he decided he'll launch a different campaign, not just a fashion one, make sure that everyone in the industry knows what Sierra and Wyatt are like, ensure that they never work in the industry again."
It wasn't brilliant but it did, at least, distract him. His eyes cleared, his lips curving faintly. "Poetic justice. Well, as a writer, I approve of that."
"I might not be able to arrest them for being creeps but I realized that being arrested isn't the only punishment. Thanks to you."
He blinked. "Me? What did I do?"
She offered him a small smile. "It was what you said, about helping Rina and how Jenna didn't have anyone to turn to. It reminded me that there are other ways to help and it occurred to me that Teddy Farrow could have helped Jenna, can still help, with his connections in the industry."
"So you told him about Sierra and Wyatt and suggested what he could do," he finished, giving her an approving look. "That's brilliant."
She flushed a little. "Teddy Farrow's doing the hard part and, well, you were the one who gave me the idea."
He nodded with exaggerated solemnity. "Very well, if you insist, I'm brilliant too."
A laugh escaped her. (How could he do that, make her laugh so easily?) "I don't think that's what I said."
"I read between the lines. I'm a writer; it's a skill."
"I think it's more your ego talking."
"Maybe, but I did say we make a pretty good team and I was right about that too."
"Uh huh, and I still think you remind me of Hooch. In fact," she pretended to study him, "I think I can see a definite physical resemblance too."
He made a face at her and she smirked, realizing that this exchange had not only distracted him and cheered him up but it had lifted her spirits too. Even the tragedy of Jenna McBoyd's case wasn't weighing her down so much anymore. He was good at that, lifting her mood, making the hard days somewhat less so.
Not a bad quality in someone who would also inevitably be around as she faced all the coming changes in her life. Which reminded her… "Oh, I should tell you something."
Her change of tone had him blinking, a faint frown of curiosity flickering across his face. "What is it?"
"I'm going to be having dinner with my dad this weekend and…" she hesitated but she had pretty much decided. "I plan to tell him about, well, you know, then."
"You plan to tell your dad," he repeated slowly and she belatedly recognized the look on his face was something like apprehension.
She was nervous enough over telling her dad that she was pregnant but it wasn't the sort of secret she could justify keeping from her dad for much longer. But with her own nerves about talking to her dad, she hadn't even thought how Castle might view it, why Castle might feel apprehensive.
"My dad isn't going to blame you or anything," she hurriedly added. "I don't." And now, finally, she did think of one way to try to heal the wound she'd apparently unwittingly inflicted earlier. "And I've been thinking… I'm glad it's you," she admitted, not entirely smoothly. "Having a baby like this, it's not what I expected but if it had to happen, I think I'm… glad it's with you."
It wasn't the most eloquent confession but his eyes, his whole expression, lit up as if he'd just won the Nobel Prize.
She felt a flutter of panic at the sight, at this evidence of the power she apparently had over him, how vulnerable he was to her. She'd promised herself to keep a measure of distance between them for her own protection but it occurred to her now that it was also for his. She couldn't—wouldn't—lead him on, couldn't allow them to get any closer than they already were just by virtue of the new life they had created. This baby was all that was holding them together—she had to remember that—and she'd seen enough to know that a baby wasn't enough, wasn't a good foundation for a relationship.
"I… um, thank you." For one of the few times in her memory, he looked at a loss for words.
She forced herself to shrug, trying to downplay the significance of her admission. "It's true. So, yes, I'm planning to tell my dad this weekend. I, well, I figure he should be the first person I tell." She paused and then went on, "And then after that, I guess you can tell Alexis and Martha." She tried not to show how the thought of Alexis and Martha finding out had her inwardly cringing. Oh god, these next few weeks as the circle of people who knew about her condition expanded were not going to be easy.
He grimaced slightly.
"How do you think Alexis and Martha will react?" she asked, feeling another layer of nervousness on top of those she already felt at the prospect of telling her dad.
"My mother's reaction will be melodramatic and over the top but she'll take it in stride. As for Alexis," he paused, a faint frown flickering across his face before he forcibly smoothed it out, "well, she'll be surprised but she'll be fine too. I'm not worried," he stated in the tone of someone trying to convince himself.
She felt a knot of tension form in her chest. He was worried over Alexis's reaction. Oh, one more person whose reaction was something to worry about.
Oh, and the boys would need to be told too.
It was her turn to make a face and his gaze sharpened. "What?"
"The boys," she answered succinctly.
He glanced back over his shoulder, in the direction of the bullpen. "You're right, they must be wondering where we are."
She didn't know why she was somehow surprised that his immediate thought at the mention of the boys hadn't matched what was on her mind. (Why should she find that surprising? He wasn't a mind reader.) And he had a point too, a more immediate one. "Oh, right."
It was his turn to straighten and take a small step back. "I'll go first," he offered. "I should be heading home anyway. Rina will be coming over soon for her movie night with Alexis."
She gave him a small smile at that. "I hope they have fun."
"A High School Musical marathon? How could that be anything but fun?" he pretended confusion, as if the concept of not enjoying High School Musical were as unthinkable as a blizzard in the Sahara.
A huff of a laugh escaped her. Ridiculous man. "Have a good night, Castle."
His lips quirked slightly. "Til tomorrow, Beckett."
Their eyes met and held in an oddly charged moment and she knew they were both remembering their exchange from a couple months ago, about why he didn't just say 'good night.' It had become something of a private joke between them and she didn't know why it suddenly seemed like such an intimate thing. Absurd, considering everything, the situation they were in, but somehow, it meant something. Sex was one thing, didn't necessarily mean much, but a private joke was more, was evidence of a relationship, a shared understanding.
His eyes darted down to her lips and then he blinked and cleared his throat a little, stepping back. "See you later, Beckett." His voice sounded a little odd and then he was turning and leaving, and she could only watch, very conscious of her lips, almost tingling with awareness, anticipation of the kiss that hadn't happened. He still wanted her. Thought about kissing her.
Not that it mattered, because she'd already decided that nothing like that could happen between them again. They would be coworkers and friends of a sort and would find a way to co-parent but that was all. So she told herself, again, and hoped the repetition would make it true.
Castle leaned in as his mother lifted a beringed hand to his cheek, one of her occasional caresses, her expression softened now that he'd explained his motivation for inviting Rina over.
"Oh my son, the big softy. And I know you have a reputation to protect; your secret's safe with me."
His reputation. He inwardly grimaced. He wondered how long it would take for him to live down his reputation where Beckett was concerned since he suspected at least part of Beckett's unwillingness to trust him was due to his reputation, although he knew his own missteps hadn't helped matters either.
"What is it, Richard? Something's on your mind."
He blinked and focused on his mother, saw her inquiring look. He forgot sometimes how well his mother knew him. For all the ways in which her presence in his home often grated on him, his mother was possibly, still, the person who knew him best in some ways; he tried so hard to shield Alexis from his personal life and hid his own concerns from her for obvious reasons but he didn't try quite so hard to shield his mother, if only because he knew it would be wasted effort.
He forcibly smoothed out his expression. "Nothing. Just thinking about Beckett, something she said." Beckett was, as she'd said, too used to him acting like a 10-year-old and as much as he loved her teasing, he wondered sometimes if her teasing was a sign that she couldn't take him seriously.
"Ah, yes, your Detective. You should kiss that girl while you're both young."
He choked on air and hastily tried to turn it into a cough. Little did his mother know just how inappropriate her blithe advice was. It would be a good opening for him to tell his mother what was actually going on, that he had not only kissed Beckett but was going to have a baby with her—but he couldn't tell his mother. Not yet. For one thing, he wanted to tell Alexis first but more than that, he could not tell his mother when Beckett hadn't even told her own dad yet.
He felt his gut clench just at the thought. He might never have met Beckett's dad but as a father himself, Castle couldn't imagine that Mr. Beckett would feel at all kindly disposed towards the man who'd impregnated his daughter. Oh god. Not a helpful thought, at all. Castle would want to kill any boy who got Alexis into such a situation and while he knew Beckett's situation was very different by virtue of their respective ages, at the very least, he still couldn't think that Mr. Beckett would be pleased.
"I, uh, don't think I'll be doing that any time soon," he managed in response, trying to sound indifferent. Of course he wanted to kiss Beckett again (and do a lot more than that), had been so very tempted to kiss her earlier before he'd stopped himself. He couldn't kiss her, not again, not yet. Not until he knew for sure she wanted it, wanted to be in a relationship with him.
"You needn't sound like that, Richard. I know you like Beckett."
Like Beckett? He could almost laugh. He more than liked Beckett. He was sure of that now.
Instead, he gave a rather rueful smile. "What gave me away?"
His mother directed one of her patented looks when she thought he was being silly at him. "You're back at the precinct working with her and don't tell me it's for research. You and I both know you've done more than enough research for Nikki Heat, whether you end up writing another Nikki Heat book or not."
"It's not about the research anymore," he acknowledged. Although he wondered now, how much had it ever really been about research? Or at least, research into general NYPD policies and procedures, not much. No, his real reason, even from the beginning, had been research about Beckett. He'd needed to know her better if he were going to write a character based on her. That part was certainly true but even so, it sounded like an excuse to his own ears. Because the real reason was that he found Beckett fascinating. And he'd wanted to know her better for that reason.
Maybe he really had been falling in love with her from the beginning. He was certainly in love with her now. He knew that for sure. Totally and irrevocably in love. Terrifyingly in love.
"I know that, Richard. So what's the problem?"
"I don't know what she wants," he found himself blurting out, surprising even himself. He hadn't intended to confide in his mother. She wasn't exactly his first choice of confidante but in this, he supposed, there was no one else he could talk to either.
His mother nodded. "Yes, well, Beckett isn't like one of your other women. She's not the type to be swayed by your looks or your fame."
He made a face at her. "Thank you, mother," he returned dryly. "That much I had managed to figure out for myself, even with my feeble brain."
His mother swatted his arm. "Don't take that tone with me, Richard. I only meant that you've had it easy when it comes to attracting women, thanks to your looks and your charm. You're going to need to try harder to impress Beckett. So do you have a plan for winning Beckett over?"
"Be my usual charming self?" he suggested. It sounded lame even to him but everything about his relationship with Beckett was so fraught with significance, the stakes so high, and for the first time in decades, he honestly doubted his own ability to make a woman care about him.
His mother gave him a look that spoke as clearly as words that she thought he needed another, better plan. And then she straightened, her expression changing to what he mentally termed her 'on stage' look, as she declaimed, "'A kind heart he hath; a woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.'"
"Shakespeare," he identified automatically. "The Merry Wives of Windsor." And then belatedly understood what his mother had meant, even expressed in characteristic style.
"A kind heart," he repeated slowly.
His mother squeezed his hand. "You are a better man than you sometimes act like, Richard, so I suggest you let your Detective Beckett see more of the real you."
"Thanks for the advice."
"No need to thank me. I think Beckett would be good for you. You need someone who'll keep you in line."
"I can keep myself in line," he protested.
His mother didn't respond to this admittedly-inaccurate assertion in words; she only gave him an eloquent look of skepticism and he felt heat creeping into his cheeks—damn it, it was ridiculous for a grown man to be coloring from something his mother said—feeling rather like the young boy he'd once been when he'd been caught out in some mischief.
He made a rueful face in acknowledgment of her point and she nodded. "I'm still your mother, Richard."
"Believe me, I'm in no danger of forgetting that," he told her wryly.
She huffed a little. "See that you don't. Now, I'm going to go up and start learning my lines. Rehearsals start next week and I want to be word-perfect by then." His mother stood up, heading to the stairs only to pause and glance back. "Oh, you and Alexis will come to Opening Night, won't you?"
He pretended to think about it. As if either he or Alexis would miss her Opening Night. "I'm not sure. I might feel an urgent need to play video games that night," he deadpanned.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Very funny, Richard. Never mind; I'll just tell Alexis and she'll insist you come."
"Well, in that case, I'll have to come," he agreed with feigned reluctance.
His mother nodded with an air of regal satisfaction and sailed upstairs, while he watched, a smile tugging on his lips. His mother really was irrepressible.
His smile faded slowly as thoughts of Beckett inevitably returned to his mind, not that she was ever far from his thoughts these days.
His mother was right, although he didn't intend to tell her so. He did think Beckett would be good for him and not only because he was in love with her (or maybe it was partly why he was in love with her.) Beckett, who was real and down to earth, who cared so much about the victims, about justice, about, well, the important things but who did not care about things like money or fame. She kept him on his toes, challenged him, inspired him (not only in his writing but personally too).
And he loved her for it, was in love with her. He'd suspected it for days, even weeks, now, but he'd realized it for sure barely hours ago. When he'd found her in that hidden storage room, heard the emotion clogging her voice, and realized with a spurt of shock that she was fighting tears. Tears, from Beckett! And at the closure of an admittedly tragic case, but still, almost all homicide cases were tragic. Now, belatedly, Castle could guess that it had almost certainly been one of the emotional changes associated with hormones but at the time, he hadn't been able to think so clearly. All he'd known was that the emotion in her voice had seemed to strike him like a blow to the chest, making it hard for him to breathe, and he hadn't been able to help reaching for her, trying to hold her. At that moment, he'd felt as if he needed to hold her more than he needed his next breath.
He'd been more than half expecting her to pull away from him, resist any and all attempts to comfort her. He'd been shocked, stunned almost as much as he had been when she'd told him of her pregnancy, when she hadn't resisted, more, had rested her head against his shoulder.
She hadn't returned the embrace but she had let him hold her, at least partially. He remembered that moment with the same, almost dizzying surge of emotion he'd felt then. A surge of emotion so powerful it had almost knocked him flat and the only thing he could think to compare it to had been the way he'd felt when he'd held Alexis as a baby. Except this had been very different and somehow not. He'd felt that same bone-deep level of certainty, of commitment. A realization that he wanted to spend the rest of his life making Kate Beckett happy.
He wanted to be there for her, wanted to be the person she turned to in the rare times when she needed someone else. He wanted to be good for her as he believed—knew—she would be good for him.
In his optimistic moments, he thought, hoped, he could be good for her. He could help to add a little more levity to her otherwise-too-serious life. He could balance out her own intensity, try to keep her from burning out. He'd spent enough time with cops and other law enforcement professionals to know how high the burn-out rate tended to be, at least for the good ones, the ones who really cared about the job, who took on its burdens. It was something Montgomery had said to him, soon after he had started shadowing Beckett, that Montgomery thought Castle's addition to the team might be a good thing because he would help to keep things light and Beckett and her team needed something to lighten the intensity. Montgomery hadn't meant it in a personal sense, at least Castle didn't think so, but Castle had been able to see the truth of it.
In his less-optimistic moments, he wondered if he could ever be enough for a woman as remarkable as Kate Beckett. And it wasn't as if he had a good track record at keeping a woman happy for long. He hadn't been enough for Kyra, his first real love, or for Meredith or Gina. Oh, he knew intellectually that the failure of his first marriage had little to do with him personally. Meredith was so flighty no one person would ever keep her happy for long; she wasn't the type of person who did long-term relationships, not really, not even with her own daughter. And as for Gina, well, there were a host of reasons why he and Gina hadn't made a good couple, in spite of their surface compatibility.
Beckett was different; his relationship with Beckett was different. He knew that. Even now, already, he and Beckett were friends in a way he hadn't been with Meredith, partners in a way he hadn't been with Gina, not really. He just didn't know if it would be different enough, if it could and would last.
He knew Beckett had softened towards him, started to accept and maybe even like his presence at work. (She had credited him with the idea for how to punish Sierra and Wyatt outside of the criminal justice system.) She trusted him at least enough to rest her head on his shoulder. And more than that, she hadn't rejected his comfort.
She'd said she thought she was glad this situation, the unplanned pregnancy, was with him. But she could have just meant that she was glad that he wasn't a dead-beat dad. It didn't have to mean anything more than that, anything more personal, he told himself. And yet, for all that, he couldn't help but hope that it did mean more. It had been an admission, a personal one, and Beckett wasn't someone who made such personal admissions easily.
He grimaced and sighed a little, hope mingling in with fear, as was always the case when he thought about Beckett.
He was just so vulnerable where she was concerned and it was terrifying. Terrifying to be so in love and so unsure of himself. Terrifying to know he was going to be tied to Beckett for the rest of his life and still had no idea if she could, or would, trust him enough. If she could love him.
Oh god.
But she'd let him comfort her… She didn't blame him, was even glad to be going through this with him. That had to mean something, didn't it?
~To be continued…~
A/N 2: Apologies in advance but I don't think I'll be able to post next week as RL is going to be very busy. I'll try to update as soon as I can once RL eases up. In the meantime, thank you as always to all readers and reviewers.
