Four months later
"Richard, really. You can't sit here moping for the rest of your life. You need to come back to the city and get back to writing. You're a grown man. Time to start acting like it."
Rolling his eyes, Rick sinks further into the oversized armchair of the Hamptons living room, swirling the scotch around the glass in his right hand. His eyes remain glued to the waves crashing along the beach as his mother paces and lectures behind him. It's nothing he hasn't heard before, and nothing he's interested in hearing again.
But that doesn't stop her. Never has, and apparently it never will.
He was shot. Shot with two bullets, one of which had collapsed his left lung, and both of which had put him in grueling physical therapy for the past three and a half months. He's healing out here. He's not hiding.
His daughter is back in California, his mother continues to take the Broadway stage by storm, and he's…here. Not writing. Not being fawned over by inappropriately aged young women. Not doing anything.
God, he's depressing. Depressed. It's entirely possible that he's depressed.
"Richard, are you even listening to me?"
He sighs, rubbing his temple with his left hand as she comes around and plops into the armchair next to him. The soft weight of her hand on his bicep forces his gaze to hers, and he's surprised by what he sees there. His mother is not one to show emotion, not true emotion anyway, but her eyes are misty, concern and a bit of fear clearly evident in the pinch of her lips and the furrow of her brow.
"I'm worried about you, darling. I don't like how much time you've spent out here alone."
"Mother…"
He pauses because he doesn't know what to say exactly. She's probably right. He has spent too much time out here alone. But then, what else is there? Where else? Here in his mother's beach house, or the city, in a loft that used to be his but is now his mother's as well? What kind of life is that?
"Have you spoken to Katherine again?"
"What?"
He's taken completely by surprise with her question. Katherine Beckett. No doubt, she's who his mother is referring to. He's heard the story enough times to know her name, and he's googled her enough to know the basic facts. But what he can't figure out is the rest of it, the details. Why would he have searched her out? Why did he step in front of a bullet for her?
Why was he involved in an NYPD case to begin with?
"No, Mother."
The silence he's greeted with is the same she's given every time he's answered this question. It's disappointment, disapproval, displeasure, but he can't understand why she keeps pushing. He didn't know Captain Beckett before getting shot, and he has no reason to know her now, despite what his mother seems to think.
"Look. I know you mean well, but I'm not ready to come back to the city yet. I was shot. Do you remember that?" He ignores her scoff, needing to get his point across. "I'll come back when I'm ready. I'll get back to writing when I'm ready. But until then? Please, just let it be."
Relaxing into the seat again and turning his attention back to the shoreline, he takes a healthy swig of his scotch, wincing at the burn in his throat. The pain feels good, right, reminds him that he's alive. Probably not good long term, but it's good enough for now, and that's all that matters.
"When do you finish your physical therapy?"
He sets his glass on the floor and drops his head into his hands, groaning deep and rough. "Mother."
"Richard Castle, don't you 'Mother' me. I'm only asking a simple question."
Peeking at her from between his fingers, he tries to read her expression. It's clear, relaxed, but it's not fooling him. He could lie, tell her he still has a month or two just to get her to back off, to buy himself more time.
He could.
But, of course, he can't. He won't. Because the fact of the matter is she's seen how much progress he's made. The wounds are healed, the pain almost completely gone. His muscles are strong, his lungs working at their full capacity again. He's better. Back to normal, and the truth is, he doesn't need physical therapy anymore.
"My last session is scheduled for next week."
She nods, her lips pursed as she seems to absorb this information, and he turns his attention back to the ocean. A storm is beginning to roll in, the sky darkening little by little, the surge of the waves becoming more violent the longer he watches.
Questions he doesn't want to face, doesn't want to answer begin to swirl through his mind. How did he get here?
And how does he find his way back?
She almost drops her full cup of coffee when the phone rings, the shrill noise shattering the silence of her office. Managing to keep her grip without spilling more than a few drops over the side, she grabs for the offending device, removing the phone from its cradle and bringing it to her ear.
"Beckett."
"Yes, Ma'am. This is Officer Torres at the front entrance. You have a visitor requesting to be let through."
"Who is it?"
"Woman by the name of Martha Rodgers."
Kate actually does drop her mug this time, wincing when the hot liquid splashes over her black pumps, the initial burn receding as the coffee cools. And these were her favorite shoes too.
"Ma'am?"
"Uhh…" She looks out her window, observing the hustle and bustle of the bullpen, and then spots her best detectives both hunched over their desks. Not willing to share this new development with them quite yet, she makes a snap decision. "No, keep her there. I'll be right down."
"Very good."
Torres hangs up, and the dial tone echoes through Kate's office before she slams her phone back down as well. She stands and spins in an aimless circle as her brain tries to keep up with her body.
Towel. She needs a towel to clean up the mess. Grabbing her gym bag full of dirty clothes from this morning's sparring session and work out, she pulls a used hand towel from among the other articles of clothing, wrinkling her nose at the stink before she covers the puddle, allowing the material to soak it all up.
She dries the floor and stuffs the towel back in her bag, not bothering to worry about just how terrible it's going to smell tonight when she gets home, and then slips her ruined shoes from her feet, shoving them into the bag as well. She grabs a backup pair from her bottom desk drawer, along with her purse and then taps the keyboard a few times to lock her computer.
Shrugging into her coat, she steps from her office into the noisy bullpen, locking the door behind her and making a beeline for the closest elevator.
"Come on, come on," she whispers, willing the doors to part before someone notices that she's leaving.
"Hey, Captain."
But today must not be her lucky day.
Turning from the elevator, she catches sight of Esposito skidding around the half wall separating the hallway from the collection of desks, heading straight for her.
"Where you goin'?"
She levels him with a glare that makes it clear she has no intention of telling him because it's none of his business, but he ignores it completely, much to her annoyance.
"Got a hot date?"
Rolling her eyes, she huffs. Ever since Castle had breezed into this place, upset everything, and then disappeared just as fast as he'd come, Espo has been trying to get her to go out, to meet someone new, and it's grating on her nerves.
She doesn't need help meeting people, doesn't need to be pushed to find male companionship, because she's perfectly capable of handling it on her own. When she wants to. It's not her fault every guy she's met recently has been obnoxious and annoying. It's not her fault that none of them hold any appeal or show any potential to last past a couple of drinks.
It's not her fault she still sees blue eyes and dark hair, broad shoulders and a perfectly shaped ass when she dreams at night.
But that's not the point.
"Did you need something, Esposito?"
He deflates under her question, his face falling as he shakes his head. "No, I'm good. Ryan and I are still combing through financials for the Webster case."
"Good. Then get back to work."
"Yes, Captain." Like a chastised puppy, he scurries back to his desk, shaking his head at his partner as he drops into his chair, and she groans when she realizes the elevator still hasn't arrived. Seriously?
Growing impatient, she turns for the stairs instead. She needs to move, needs to not be standing still when there are so many questions racing through her mind. Why is Martha here? Why now? What has happened?
It's been four months and she hasn't heard a single peep from any of them. No phone call, no email, not even a freaking carrier pigeon to tell her that Castle has recovered and is doing well. What the hell could Martha want with her now?
Kate bursts through the stairwell door, taking the steps two at a time as she races toward the ground floor, the sudden need for answers pushing her faster and faster until she reaches the lobby. Martha's voice echoes around the large, open space, the tinkle of her laugh bouncing off the tiled floor, and Kate spots her over by the metal detectors, flirting with one of the desk sergeants.
Her fiery red hair is curled to perfection, her dress bright and flowing around her body as she moves. Pausing in the shadow of the stairwell door, Kate takes a deep breath. Is she ready for this? She's spent the last four months trying to forget him, to get his smile out of her head, his voice out of her mind. Does she really want to be thrust back into his world? Even if it's just a connection with Martha?
As though Martha had been able to sense her presence, clear blue eyes suddenly land on Kate, and she watches as a genuine smile appears on the older woman's face. It's time, whether she's ready for it or not. Whether she wants it or not.
"Katherine, darling," Martha says as she waves.
Kate strides over to her, keeping her head held high and her face clear, as she tries to project an air of confidence.
"Hello, Ms. Rodgers."
She sticks her hand out, but is surprised when Martha's delicate fingers grip both of her shoulders and the woman leans in to kiss her cheek.
"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes? And please, it's Martha. I think we've been through enough to consider first names appropriate, yes?"
Suddenly uncomfortable under Martha's penetrating gaze, Kate dips her head, tucking a nonexistent strand of loose hair behind her ear. She swallows down her childish reaction, meeting Martha's eyes again and nodding.
"Yes, of course. Martha. What can I do for you?"
The question seems to throw the woman, but it's only for a moment before her natural composure returns and that smile crosses her face again. Martha steps up beside her, twining a strong arm into Kate's while patting her hand.
"I thought we might be able to get a coffee. We need to talk."
They walk in silence to a coffee shop three blocks down from the precinct. Martha holds her head high, her shoulders back, and Kate matches her, keeping her strides long and sure. Neither speaks as they navigate through the never-ending pedestrian traffic, but Kate's comfortable with that. She'd rather have this conversation sitting down anyway.
Entering the shop, they take turns ordering, and then settle at a circular table set in a secluded corner. Kate cups both hands around the white ceramic mug, reveling in the warmth of her latte as she waits for her mind to settle on what to ask first, or for Martha to speak. She isn't sure which is more desirable at this point.
"So, Katherine. How have you been?"
Martha's blue eyes settle on Kate, penetrating in their clarity and knowledge, as though she can read her without any effort at all. It's unsettling, and Kate shifts in her seat, trying to decide how best to answer.
How has she been? Fine.
She's always fine. But fine isn't good. Fine isn't happy. Fine is normal, is expected, but it's not what other people want to hear.
"Busy, as always. We put one person away and there's always another waiting to take their place."
"Mmm."
Nodding, Martha sips her coffee, and Kate follows suit. The latte warms her from the inside out and she closes her eyes in pleasure. Nothing better than a well made cup of coffee.
"And outside of the precinct? I'm sure there's more to you than being a cop."
Startled, Kate shoots her gaze back to Martha's, grinning when she sees the sparkle in the older woman's eyes. She can't stop the quiet chuckle from escaping, and finds Martha's teasing is exactly what she needs to relax. There's something about this woman, something about her personality that releases the tension in Kate's shoulders, that makes her feel safe and comfortable. It's an odd sensation that she hasn't felt in years. Not since… Well. Not in a long time.
"I work a lot, but I've been well. What about you? And Alexis?"
And Castle?
The question hangs between them. Unspoken but not unheard.
"The same. I've been busy with the theater of course. Alexis went back to her life in California when Richard left for the Hamptons. She's well. Working hard." Martha pauses, shifting her gaze to the window for a moment before meeting Kate's eyes again. "And Richard is doing very well. In case you were wondering."
Kate feels the heat rise in her cheeks and ducks her head, taking a sip of her coffee to hide her reaction. She startles, shifting her eyesight back up when Martha's hand lands over her own.
"I think it might be good for you two to see each other."
"What? Why do you say that?"
Martha shrugs, leaning back in her chair. "Call it a mother's intuition. And a woman's."
"Martha-"
"Katherine, I'm not blind. I can see that you're concerned about him. I'm also not senile. When you were around those few days, my son was a different person. And since then? Since you've been apart? He's disappeared again."
Rubbing her forehead, Kate sighs. This isn't how this was supposed to go.
"I don't know what you want me to do here. He came to me remember? I didn't do anything back then and I can't do anything for him now."
"I just want you to see him. Talk to him. I think it would be good for you both. He has a lot of questions about those days, things he doesn't remember. Why he was there with you? How he found you in the first place? You're the only one who can give him the answers."
"I don't have the answers. I don't know why he came to me either."
Leaning forward, Martha reaches across the table for Kate's hands again, squeezing with a force that she doesn't expect. But the physical contact grounds her, keeps her steady as she tries to make sense of what Martha is asking for.
To see him.
She wants to. Despite her brain's objections, her mind's unhelpful whisperings of He doesn't remember you and Nothing good ever comes from letting someone in, she still wants to throw caution to the wind and meet him for a coffee. Just to look into his eyes again, to hear his voice, and see for herself that he really is alive.
"I'm just asking you for one meet. A phone call, a coffee, a drink, dinner. It doesn't matter. Just a chance to see what happens. Please, Kate."
"And what happens when I can't give him what he wants?"
"Then that's it. You're free to go back to your life and you won't hear from us again."
That statement hits harder than it should, but Kate shakes her head, unwilling to analyze what that means right now. One conversation. That's it. She can do one.
"Okay."