4th February
She has the day completely to herself. She'd realised that when she woke. The thought had startled her awake. She had no case to close. She had no paperwork to eat away her time. She had nothing to keep her mind off that little piece of foil resting beside her alarm clock and the words she can see scrawled across the sticker.
Today is tomorrow.
She won't let it hang over her head. She can't let whatever she's feeling, some feeling sunk so deep in the pit of her stomach that she can't name it, not quite.
She has to find something to occupy her mind. At least she has a dozen things she can do, things she's been putting off, things she's been meaning to do, things on that ever-growing mental list. They're not perfect, they're not a long term distraction, but they'll do.
She's not on call today, but she is clinging to the slim chance she could be called in for a high-profile case. If something big happens, dispatch knows to bring in her team. At least she hopes they do. Is it completely wrong to wish for some high-profile individual to be murdered so gruesomely that the NYPD's only option is to recall her team?
Yeah, they're good, but they're not that good. There are other detectives on the squad who are capable of solving a crime. She just doesn't need the time to think.
So she doesn't use it.
She forces herself to eat and brings her coffee back into her room while she finds something to wear. Her decision made to forgo a shower and clean every square inch of her apartment. A time waster, a distraction greater than no other. Plus she's been meaning to do it for a while, so why not today? What better distraction than that? She will just bury herself in it, forcing her mind to focus on dirt and grime and maybe some mould and not on him and chocolates and cupcakes. And most certainly not on 'tomorrow' being today.
It probably won't work but she has to try. She has to at least try to distract herself.
It works.
She cleans the whole place in four hours, like some kind of crazed person. She doesn't stop until she has cleaned everything she can possibly think of, moved everything she can alone, wiped and dusted and vacuumed everything she can possibly get behind. She slips into the shower and washes the sweat from her skin, debating her next course of action, her next distraction. Yesterday she'd made cursory plans with Lanie to meet for lunch, but while that would serve as a distraction, and pretty good one, that woman can read her like a book. She doesn't feel like heralding an onslaught of questions, trying to find answers she doesn't have about things she's not understanding herself. she's actually surprised she hasn't received a phonecall requesting lunch, a thin veil over the fact she's been dodging her and it is time to fess up. But maybe Lanie has her own distractions. Regardless she still needs to fill in her afternoon, and her evening.
She has other options.
She redresses and heads out, deciding that groceries are the easiest way to waste an hour, plus she's hungry and after cleaning it out she knows exactly what is in her fridge – absolutely nothing. Her cupboards are also embarrassingly sparse. She's even reaching the bottom of the coffee jar. It's time to fill them.
She returns, bundling the half-dozen bags into one hand so she can open the door and get inside. She busies herself putting everything away. After she comes out of the bathroom, glad she's restocked her supplies in there as well, she collapses onto the bed, it's more comfortable than the couch and its proximity just an added bonus.
She regards the ceiling, carefully studies it, notices a crack in the cornice she decides she should keep an eye on. It looks like it might travel.
She wants to laugh at the thought.
She does a little, at herself.
Not too much though. She doesn't want to sound like a crazy person.
But the small chuckle she lets out sets free lifts a weight from her chest.
She huffs out a deep breath.
This will be okay. All things considered, the complication of their relationship – what it is and what it isn't, shouldn't hang over them. It shouldn't stop her enjoying today. She hasn't even spoken to him or seen him. She pushes the thought aside. She spent the whole day with him yesterday. When did she start wanting to see him on her day off as well? Maybe it has more to do with knowing he is associated with that sunken feeling nestled in her stomach.
Who knows? She certainly doesn't.
It doesn't matter, she's not going to find out anytime soon. 'Tomorrow' will be today whenever he's ready. It could be days away, or weeks. Sometimes tomorrow never comes. She quashes that thought.
He wouldn't leave her hanging too long though, surely. He might like to pull her pigtails, push her buttons, but he isn't cruel. He wouldn't make a gesture about 'tomorrow' and have it not be today.
He wouldn't.
He will probably wait until the last possible second to offer an explanation, to appear out of nowhere with another small surprise to throw her off-centre, force her to steel her focus and graciously accept his offering. She wouldn't turn it down. Though there are certain things she can't allow him to do. Not without warning, not against her knowledge. But surely he wouldn't push it too far.
But then again, this is Richard Castle. Who knows how his mind works?
Well she does, she knows that. But even she doesn't follow his erratic thought process all the time. At least she's quick to catch-up and understand.
She just has to hope he lets her catch up.
That would be her only request. Were she to get a say in the matter, all she would ask for would be no surprises. Sure, turning up unannounced with a small implication of a step forward in this tangled oddly-coordinated dance would be okay. She may need him to lead, may be happy to let him take charge, but she needs him to give her time to follow, to keep up.
She doesn't want extravagant. She's never been a fan of the idea. He loves extravagance and flamboyance, but he knows she doesn't. He wouldn't press that much, would he?
She doubts it.
She turns her head, flicking her gaze to the foil in its new place on her dresser. She's ignoring the permanence of that move. But that small heart, while sinfully delicious and quite meaningful, symbolic even, was not some extravagant, unavoidable, obvious monstrosity. Yeah it had been distracting as she found it, then later when she read the words, it seemed like a monstrosity. But now, after considering a few of the other, more sickening possibilities, that particular gift isn't so bad. He could have given her a balloon with the same message.
She shudders at the thought and flicks her eyes to the post-it that's folded, perched on the dresser, opposite corners so that when she steals a glance at one, she doesn't see the other, so it is not possible she could be overwhelmed by both at once – separately they're okay. Together they're still a little too much.
She realises the common thread, should have seen it sooner. Everything is edible.
So today, it would follow suit that it would be edible. But he's made no contact with her. Not suggested dinner, not suggested lunch, not even suggested they meet for coffee. They've done that before, after a tough week, sat in silence in a coffee shop, surrounded by people who were so unaware of the horrors of their week. The silence of her apartment but the thought of him sitting stoically beside her is oddly comforting, even if he is the source of her current discomfort.
She checks her phone just to be certain she hasn't missed something. She slides it from her pocket, urges it from its slumber.
Nothing.
So the options for today being 'tomorrow' are beginning to run thin. Especially, considering he hasn't made contact. But he might. He could even just turn up at her door unannounced. It wouldn't be the first time.
With a huff she sits up again, she needs to occupy her mind. It's barely mid-afternoon but she needs to find something, she is not just going to sit by the door clutching her phone waiting for him to make his move. She doesn't doubt there will be a move. Just the when, the where and the how escape her. She isn't even letting herself consider the 'what'; there are just too many options. But she certainly knows the why – he is trying to prove a point, deliver a message. She doesn't know the message. But she does know there will be one. She isn't bothering to guess, if she tries to work it out she'll run herself ragged. And then she will end up wrong. So she's putting it to rest, leaving it to stew in her bedroom, on its own.
She just needs something else to occupy her mind, everything is cleaned and the fridge is stocked. But there has to be something else. She scans the room, flicks her eyes over her dresser again, forcing herself not to think about it, scans her eyes past the pile of laundry in the corner (that can be a job for another day there is too much waiting around). She needs to completely bury herself in a task, when she reaches the empty nightstand on the far side of the bed she knows what she needs. But it isn't over there.
She spins herself around and scoots over the bed to her own nightstand. The small stack of books behind the nightstand should suffice in occupying her mind. And there are certainly more where they come from.
There are only three books on her nightstand, her to-read pile, but the middle one is one of Castle's. She's half way through all of them – something she's not too happy with, but after some days she just needs something different, something new, something with a different mood to your own.
But she won't read those books, not today. They are not a distracted, they're a reality.
She needs something new, something she hasn't even looked at before. She needs a big distraction. She needs to go to the bookstore. She grabs her stuff and heads out, not bothering with her own bookshelf, she'll find more of the same.
Kate Beckett can consider herself successfully distracted. She's wasted an unknown two hours perusing the shelves, reading every blurb she can get her hands on, eyes scanning the covers, studying as she attempts to leech the story from within. When she realises she's hit the teen literature she sighs and doubles back, holding onto the stack of choices she's kept in her arms.
She has enough reading material to bury her for a month. But she isn't ready to leave just yet. She likes this world too much. So she settles herself into one of those too worn chairs and begins the first chapter of her first choice – she doesn't even care about the specifics of the plot. Her only requirement for selection had been a world far from her own. No feature to remind her in any way of what she's trying to avoid.
She's four chapters in before she looks up again, takes in her surroundings, jolts back to reality. Her legs are protesting her position but she doesn't want to move. She knows she will be assaulted by pins and needles as soon as she so much as wiggles a toe. But it has to be done, so she starts small. The result was as expected and she decides she should shift position, lift herself off the seat and stretch her hunched back. Her mother always chastised her when she curled up in a chair to read and it's a habit that's never been broken. It's one she doesn't want to break now, she can hear the reprimands as clear as day.
She realises when she gingerly sets her foot on the floor, that she's kicked off her shoes in her comfort. She glances around, notices how sparsely the shop is populated at the moment but resigns that she should put them back on, alone or not. When she leans forward she can't help but notice that the girl behind the desk is gone and it's just an older woman meandering about putting stock back on the shelves. She glances at her watch.
No wonder this place is deserted. It is nothing short of dinner time.
She gathers her things. She'll leave this woman to spend the last few opening hours of the trading hours in peace. She waits silently at the counter to pay for the books, busying herself with buttons to make it clear she hasn't minded the wait as the woman wanders back across the store. The woman regards her warmly, giving her a knowing smile. She takes her card back as the cashier sets it on the counter, giving the woman a tight smile in return. She thanks her and leaves.
She presses the stack of books against the doorjamb, and digs in her pocket for her keys. The cold metal shocks her hand and she has a curious sense of déjà vu before she forces herself to stop. She's been sitting on her coat for the past three hours. She may have been buried in the book, but she would have noticed Richard Castle sneaking up beside her and sliding his hands beneath her. She most certainly would have noticed. She shudders at the thought as she clenches the keys in her hand, twisting them around until she finds the one she needs. She shoves it into the lock and leaves it there, turning the knob with her barely free hand, her elbow settled on the books just in case.
She lets the door swing open, kicks off her shoes and heads over to the coffee table, setting her stack down. It's much larger than she intended but that's okay – it isn't like she won't read them eventually. She runs her fingers through her hair and tugs on the buttons of her coat, urging them to unhook from the thick material surrounding them. She turns her attention back towards the door as she undoes the last button, already moving to wriggle her shoulders and arms free from the confines of her coat.
That's when she spots it.
Damn it, Castle.
Today is tomorrow.
She sighs heavily and shrugs off the rest of her coat, tossing it onto the end table by the door. She can deal with that later.
She tugs her keys from the lock as she regards it curiously. This is most certainly not edible. In some cultures possibly, but she certainly won't be eating a cactus. And damn it there is another note, poking out from beneath the saucer of the pot. She tosses her keys at the couch, just missing but not caring. She'll deal with that later too.
She crouches over the curious plant. This is not what she was expecting. But that's why it is so much like Castle. She can't help but smile.
She wonders when he stopped over exactly. She can't be certain that it wasn't there when she returned with her groceries. Or even before. But she doesn't know. What's the point on dwelling on the 'when' now that she's found it?
Why does she feel oddly excited at the prospect of this gift's meaning?
She supposes it doesn't hold the symbolic shape and texture of yesterday's surprise. But still it has to have a meaning. Castle wouldn't just leave a cactus on her doorstep because he feels like it. unless that is the meaning, that not everything has a meaning. Now she's just getting philosophical.
She picks it up, catches the note between two fingers as it drops off the base of the pot, the static from the terracotta not enough to hold it there.
She realises as she stands again, kicking the door closed with her socked foot that this note is longer than the others, folded over on itself but still the size of her palm. Has he finally given her an explanation? Maybe it's just big so it didn't get missed.
She isn't sure if she wants an explanation about what he's playing at. Sure she wants to know, but a reason puts a label on this. A big fat label that neither can escape from, neither can brush aside as a simple gesture. She doesn't need an explanation to know this is more than a simple gesture.
She moves across to the couch, settles the small pot on her stack of books, a pedestal so she can take a second to study it, toy with the note in her fingers. Just for a minute, she is not going to stare it down for too long. This gift can't have connotations that can be deduced by a stare down. As easy as that would be, it won't be happening.
She toys with the edge of the note, slipping her thumb into the opening, keeping the fingers of her other hand firmly pressing the fold together, so it's still closed. But she's looking at the ornate pattern of the pot, faint the twists and curves painted on, barely visible, are stealing her focus, getting her lost in their depth. It is strikingly beautiful.
He certainly has good taste.
She smoothes the note over her knee, opening it and running her fingers over it, enjoying the odd crinkle of the smooth paper as it slides beneath her fingers. Today it's different, the note doesn't seem daunting. It's peculiar, it's intriguing and she is so absorbed she's reading the note before she realises.
It's not some metaphor for you being a cactus, don't worry.
A rose seemed a little too cliché and everything else needed too much attention.
Also, that odd lump on the back is supposed to be a flower bud. I'm doubtful, but we'll see.
Until tomorrow, Detective.
A cactus. He picked a cactus, or was swayed towards it, she isn't sure. It doesn't matter.
The prickly object before her suddenly seems warmer, more welcoming. She is intrigued by the supposed lump at the back though. She closes the note again and sets it between her fingers as she picks up the pot, spinning it so she can see the pustule as she walks, headed back to her bedroom, to her dresser. She agrees with him, it certainly doesn't look like a flower bud, but she's never really seen one in person before so she can't know for sure. She stops off in the bathroom and puts some water on the saucer, then continues carrying it carefully back to her room.
She puts it back in the corner of her dresser, where it will catch the sun in the morning through the crack in her curtains. She wedges the note beneath it, sliding her fingers along the wood as she retreats, enjoying the odd reverberation as the pads of her fingers grip the wood and she continues to slides, an odd quiver to the movement. She can't stop smiling. She really can't and she can't tear her eyes from it either. She's not admiring it, she's not.
But she is oddly glad it's something concrete, something solid that seems to prove that she didn't just get a craving for coffee and imagine his chocolate covered beans, or buy herself a cupcake and just happen to eat it beside him, or find a chocolate heart in her pocket a leftover from who knows when. She flicks her gaze to the foil and the post-it and suddenly wants to put them together.
She slides them under the saucer and has to smile. They're hidden but together. All three of them. The weight of that pot is grounding them, keeping them just out of sight, but she's still aware of them when she spies the cactus later. The cactus can keep them, until tomorrow. Who knows what he'll be doing tomorrow.
But she knows it will be another today.
Until tomorrow, folks.