Chapter Five
She's being ridiculous.
Completely, utterly ridiculous.
It's just a phone number.
She's dialed phone numbers a million times. Talked to customer service representatives, judges, other cops, family members, restaurants to order take out. This is just one more to add to the list.
Doesn't matter who's on the other end of the line. Doesn't matter that it'll be the first time she's talked to him in months.
Or, it shouldn't matter because she's a grown up, and she chases down killers for a living.
It shouldn't matter.
But it does.
Pacing her living room floor, she eyeballs the unsuspecting piece of paper lying on her kitchen table. It's just a small sheet of white, no more than four square inches, but she's never been so intimidated in her life. What will he say? What will she say? Will he even answer? What if he doesn't? Does she leave a message or just hang up or ask him to call back? And then, what if he doesn't answer and she leaves a message and he never calls back?
She pauses mid stride, turning to face her table and that damn phone number. Ten digits. That's it. Ten stupid digits, a couple of rings, and then it'll be over. She'll know for sure.
She can do this.
As she goes to take her first step, her phone begins to buzz on top of the table's surface, the ring tone breaking the silence in her apartment, and she freezes in place.
No freaking way.
With one determined stride after another, she stops next to the table, reaching for the device to check the caller ID. Same number. The piece of paper and the phone show the same number.
It's him.
He's walked past it every morning since his mother left. Three days now. Three morning runs on the beach per his physical therapist's instructions, and it still sits there, untouched. The notebook lies open; ten numbers beneath one four-letter name, all written in his mother's neat penmanship, offering a stark contrast to the crisp white page.
This morning though, he pauses on his way out the door. There's no reason for the change in his routine, and nothing to explain the desire he has to look closer. It's sudden, hitting him from left field, and he reaches for the house phone, not bothering to think past dialing those numbers.
He leans against the counter as he listens to the line connect, each ring echoing in his ear until she finally picks up.
"Beckett."
"Really? That's how you answer your phone?"
"Sorry. Force of habit."
"Oh. Right. The cop thing. This is Rick Castle, by the way."
She huffs and he finds his lips stretching into a small smile without his permission. He tries to picture her face, imagine what she may look like right now, but his memory of her is so foggy. Just that one encounter at the hospital, a ridiculous amount of narcotics floating through his bloodstream, and it's impossible to remember anything specific.
"Yeah. I know. How are you?"
"Uhh…"
Looking down his body, he takes stock of what's there. An orange sweatshirt sits over his grey t-shirt, navy blue shorts hang from his hips, and running shoes adorn his feet. The shoes are in terrible shape. Sand has been lodged in every crevice since he'd started these daily workouts, turning the bright white dull and dirty.
But underneath all that, he's strong. Stronger than he'd been before he was shot, which is actually pretty embarrassing now he thinks about it. He's really let himself go the last few years, but, shaking that thought from his mind, he refocuses on her question. He's…
"Good. I'm… I'm great actually."
"Good," she echoes. "I'm glad to hear it."
The line falls silent after that, and he isn't sure what to say next. Or why he called in the first place. Except it's… strangely nice having someone to talk to. Someone who isn't his well-meaning, but nagging mother, or his sweet, but absent daughter, or his obnoxious publisher. Or anyone from his regular life who has all these expectations he can't seem to meet anymore.
The idea of her. Of Kate. Of a friend. It's nice, and in that moment he makes a split second decision.
"I'll be back in the city this weekend. Maybe-"
"Yes?"
His eyebrows furrow at her interruption. Perhaps he's imagining the breathlessness to her voice, the anticipation laced around that single syllable, but she falls silent again before he can be sure.
Shaking his head, he continues, "Maybe we could meet up. Grab a coffee. You free on Saturday around ten-thirty?"
"Yes."
"Okay. I can swing by your place, and we can walk somewhere?"
"Uhh… Yeah, okay. I'll send you my address Saturday morning. Is this phone number-?"
"No. No, this is the house phone. I'll text you so you have my cell."
"Okay."
"Okay."
He pauses again, not quite ready to hang up but also out of things to plan, and then she decides for him.
"So I'll see you Saturday."
"It's a date. I look forward to it, Captain Beckett."
"Please, it's Kate."
"Then call me Rick. Formal titles are overrated anyway."
Her muffled laugh floats through the phone and his lips stretch into a smile. He's made her laugh. It's been a while since he's been able to do that for someone and it feels surprisingly good.
"I'll see you Saturday, Rick."
"Goodbye, Kate."
He hangs up the phone, that stupid grin still lifting his lips, and turns for the back doors. The sun is shining already, the sky clear and blue as far as he can see. It's cold, but it's a good day for a run.
Hell, it's just a good day.
It's ten twenty. Ten minutes left.
She'd been up early, antsy and desperate for some sort of physical release. After an eight mile run through the city, she'd come back and jumped in the shower, letting the burning water beat the tension from her shoulders, the knots from her stomach.
Now she's dressed and fidgeting. Nothing to do but wait. The dishes are clean, the apartment picked up, laundry put away. No emails to check. No plants to water.
She collapses onto the couch, blowing out a frustrated breath. Why is she acting like this? She feels like a teenager going on her first date instead of a grown woman about to have coffee. Confidence has never been an issue, but this man, Rick Castle, shakes her to the very core for absolutely no reason.
And it's annoying.
Three quick raps on the door break her from her thoughts, and she checks her watch again. Ten twenty-five. Well, at least he's punctual.
Peering through the peephole, she's startled by his appearance. He hadn't been lying when he'd told her he was great. He looks amazing. Chiseled and freshly shaved jaw, broad shoulders hidden beneath a well fitting coat, and under his collared shirt she can almost make out his waistline. It's trimmer than she remembers, but not bad. Definitely not in a bad way.
She swings the door open, letting a smile grace her lips when her eyes lock with his.
"Hey."
"Hey."
He doesn't say anything more, just stands there and stares, and she tucks her loose curls behind her ear.
"Did you want to come in for a second while I get my coat?"
That seems to break him from his trance, his head shaking slightly as he shifts into her doorway.
"Sorry. Yeah."
When he steps into the apartment, he immediately starts to look around, moving into her living room without hesitation. She watches him, studies his actions, the fluidity of his upper body as he leans forward to look at a row of books on her bookshelf. If she didn't know better, she wouldn't believe he'd been shot four months ago.
"You like to read?" he asks as he trails a finger over the spines of her favorite novels. The ones in English and those in Russian have mixed together on the shelf since she's never managed to shake her love of the language she'd learned in college. He taps on her copy of Anna Karenina before turning to face her, his eyes twinkling with this new found knowledge. "You like to read in Russian."
It's a statement and she feels her cheeks flush. He sounds…impressed, surprised, and she likes that. Likes it a lot.
"I do."
Pulling her coat up over her shoulders, she tugs her hair from beneath the collar, and grabs her phone and keys.
"You ready?"
"Yeah," he says as he passes by her again, walking into the hallway to wait while she shuts the door.
Here goes nothing.
He settles across from her in the corner of a busy café a few blocks from her building, placing her vanilla latte within her reach while sipping from his own cappuccino. The table she's chosen is round and small, placing them closer together than he'd expected, close enough for their knees to knock underneath, but he doesn't mind.
She's gorgeous and she smells amazing, and he doesn't mind being close to her at all.
There's still no recollection of her, no spark of remembrance from before that day in the hospital no matter how many times his mother has told him otherwise, but being here feels nice. Sitting with her while she wraps her fingers around the warmth of her mug, while she breathes in the scent of vanilla and roasted beans, while her eyes flutter closed only to open again and lock on his, is a little intoxicating if he's being honest.
"So…"
He drags out the o, finding that he'd spoken before his brain had fully formed a question, but she smiles at him, a tease in the raised corners of her lips.
"So… How have you been?"
The question is lighthearted and easy but there's a tension in her that surprises him. She hides it well - he never would have known had he not been looking so closely - but it's there, in the slight pinch of her brows, the whites of her knuckles. Has she been worried about him?
And how deep is he willing to dig right now? How much is he willing to reveal to a woman he hardly knows? Not much apparently because he plasters on a smile and relies on his charm to distract her from the truths that he's begun to loathe about himself.
"I've been great. Spent a lot of time at the beach house and just got back into town two days ago. It's nice to be home."
She nods, twisting her half-consumed coffee around in a circle as she listens, and he drinks from his own mug, savoring the bitter flavor and the burn on his tongue. He wants to ask… so many things he's wondered since waking up from surgery that day, and he has to know. Has to hear the story. The details. The whys.
"Can I ask you something?"
A small dose of apprehension crosses her face, but she shrugs. "Sure."
"How did we meet? The first time, I mean. Not in the hospital but before that. Why were you there?"
"Umm. I don't really know why. Or how you ended up in my precinct in the first place-" she pauses, tucking a nonexistent lock of hair behind her ear, and he stays silent, waiting for her. "How much did your family tell you?"
"That if I wanted answers to my questions, I had to start with you. Mother said I was suddenly talking about you all the time, and then I was working with you. And then I got shot..."
Wincing, she drops her gaze to the table.
"Yeah. Sorry about that. I didn't- It wasn't supposed to happen that way. I should have been able to protect you better."
"It's fine."
She scoffs when she looks up at him, and he rethinks what he's just said.
"Okay, maybe fine isn't the right word. But it is what it is. Can't change it now."
"Yeah, I guess."
"So, can you tell me about those few days leading up to the shooting? I can't remember any of it."
Clearing her throat, she readjusts in her seat and takes another sip of her coffee. She's stalling perhaps, although he's not sure why, and he wants her to get on with it. He's antsy, fingers twisting in his lap as he waits for her.
"You just showed up one day. Walked straight up to a murder board and started talking to two of my detectives about their case, claiming I was in trouble, that we'd been ambushed. You knew things you shouldn't have known."
"Like what?"
"Like… everything. Details of the crime scene, leads that they were just beginning to flesh out. And you kept talking to me like you knew me already. But we'd never met. The things you claimed - how we'd met, where, when - none of it was true, but you were so sure. I still don't really understand it myself."
"But. How is that possible?"
Shrugging, her eyebrows furrow. "It's not. Your guess is as good as mine."
"Wait. Did you say 'we'd been ambushed'? Like you and me?"
"Mmmhmm," she hums, and he's momentarily distracted by the noise. It's sexy in a way he's sure she didn't mean, but he likes it. Wants to hear it again. "Part of your story was that you and I were partners."
"But I'm a writer."
"Yeah. You said you were a civilian consultant. That we'd met six years ago over a case and you'd just kept coming back, working with my team and me to solve cases. And that's why you'd been at the crime scene and knew all the details."
"But I wasn't at the crime scene."
She smiles and a small laugh escapes, but he doesn't get it, can't laugh with her because none of this makes any sense. Unless…
"Did I give you a reason for this story? What was my explanation when you told me I had it all wrong?"
He must have hit the nail on the head with that because her smile drops away, her face becoming serious as she studies him. He can practically see the wheels turning in her head, and that's when he knows.
There had been a reason.
Something unbelievable that only he'd be able to come up with. Time travel, a parallel universe, a dream. It's the only way the story makes sense, the only thing that explains how he'd known her and known the case, why he'd gone to her in the first place.
"You sure you want to hear this?"
"Yes."
He'd be embarrassed by the breathless way he answers her, the desperation he knows he's failing to hide from her, but it's there on the tip of her tongue and he finds that he doesn't care if she knows how badly he needs these answers.
"You said you'd come from an alternate universe. One tiny difference in both of our paths - solving that first case together - and everything had changed."
"And you believed me."
She startles at that, her eyes blazing with denial when she looks at him, but it's true. It's written all over her face. It's the only reason why she came to the hospital, why she's here now.
"You did, didn't you? That's why you agreed to see me. How did I convince you?"
"I…"
Her mouth opens and closes, words dying before they can come all the way out until the sound of her cell phone shocks them both out of their bubble. She fumbles with the device and their moment is well and truly broken when she finally answers it.
"Beckett."
He watches her face as she listens to whoever is on the other end. She's gone from Kate, the woman who'd believed in the unbelievable, to Captain Beckett, the cop in seconds and it's fascinating to witness.
She's fascinating.
And for the first time in years, he feels alive.