Change of State: The World Anew
"I'm going to get the doctor," Martha says again. "Someone is going to give us answers."
His mother is already out the door, leaving Beckett with the man's brittle, dark-haired daughter. The man himself is observing from droopy eyes, his hand wrapped around the girl's fingers.
"Dad, you talked about her for - the last few days. All the time. You said you loved her. You said your life was better off with her."
Kate catches a breath. "Alexis, don't. There's no need."
"He's said nothing else for days and now it's just gone?"
She tries to angle her body away so that Castle can't see her talking about him. She takes a a quick moment to lay her hand on Alexis's forearm, attempting to appeal to the girl. "Your grandmother will find a doctor and get some answers. This kind of confusion may be indicative of a different kind of injury."
"Not brain damaged," Castle grumbles from the bed. Petulance is coming through in his rough, abused voice, and she doesn't like it.
Or wouldn't like it, if she could see past the wrap of bandages at his chest, the hospital gown askew on his shoulder, the limp hang of his hair into curious and familiar eyes.
"Just tell me the story," he says, a weak grin her direction. She's been caught staring again.
Beckett closes her lips together.
"'Lexis," he husks. Every word seems dragged across gravel. "Pumpkin, you tell me, since apparently you're talking to me again."
He sounds awfully with it for someone with a supposed head injury. She doesn't want to say in front of Alexis, but it's possible the last few days have been the result of some kind of stroke. Word salad, garbled meaning, his crazy insistence on twilight zone worlds.
I checked up on you, Mr. Castle. Wildly strange behavior for you, so either you've had a psychotic break, or this isn't your universe.
Kate frowns. He never felt crazy. She knows crazy, and Richard didn't have the makings of a psychotic break.
Alexis leans in and strokes her father's hair, pushing his bangs off his forehead only to have them fall again. Kate realizes at the last second that her arm has lifted to do it for him herself, do it right.
She drops her arm, steps back.
"Dad, I don't know much but... you were talking about it being all a dream. I thought you were trying to goad me - after being gone so long."
"Always," he flashes, a smile that doesn't quite make it. He's hurting over her and it makes Kate's hand come to his bedside, as if her presence does anything at all.
She knows something about the tension in a father-daughter relationship.
"I know you don't remember it, but we had a really good talk last night. You just - were so filled up with hope again, Dad. You told me that I - that I mattered."
"'Lexis," he groans, his eyes brimming blue as he looks at her. His words are still coming out rough, raw-edged, like his throat is filled with knives. "'Lex, everything you do matters." He's trying so hard to get it out, swallowing roughly. "Every decision, every moment affects people around you."
His voice sounds awful, cracking at all the important parts, and he has to keep pausing to rest, his eyes closing in such beautiful frustration. He growls and his hand is clutching Alexis's so tightly that the girl's eyes are spilling with tears.
"That's what you told me," she whispers. "I just - thought you'd forgotten that too."
"Don't remember telling - but true. All true."
His voice breaks, he swallows convulsively, and Kate finally jerks forward to help; she can't keep standing apart. Even still, he's trying to talk to his daughter. Kate hastily pours water into a plastic cup from the pitcher on the side table, removes the plastic sleeve from the straw. When she gives it to him, he sucks the water down so fast he's coughing even as he tries to talk.
"You can change things, million ways. I lost that faith - I'm sorry, sorry for giving it up. Sorry I can't get it right-"
"Dad-"
"But you - so young. Can't see it yet, but you have - potential for change. No matter circumstances or city. You can make a difference. You will."
Alexis's face is streaked with tears, and she's not speaking, just gulping back these bright jeweled drops and absolutely making her father miserable. Suffering through her suffering. He looks so broken up over her, over his less-than-stellar track record.
But Kate clears her throat. "You did that for me, Mr. Castle. You didn't lose your faith; you had it when it mattered. So. Thank you for saving my life, at nearly the cost of your own. Looks pretty great from over here."
She gives them an encouraging smile, thinking she'll slip out now, she'll leave him to his family. There's healing going on here that - by the looks of things - they've needed.
Perhaps Martha's exit was staged for a reason. Kate can learn. She'll take her bows.
"Listen, if you guys need anything," she tells the young woman. "Anything at all-"
"You're not leaving," Castle rasps from the bed. "You can't. Haven't got your answers."
"It's fine," she assures him. "If you do end up remembering, then call me. Until then, Mr-"
"No," he grunts. His face contorts with pain and his hand clutches at Alexis. "Pumpkin. Find - a nurse? Need something."
"Dad, are you okay?"
A crack of an eyelid. "Yeah," he breathes on a rush, clearly trying for her. "Course. Just a little. Nurse will know. Give me something."
"Yeah, of course. I'll find her." Alexis bends down and kisses her father's cheek before moving for the door and slipping outside.
Kate lets out a slow breath. "I'll let you rest."
"No, said that to get her out. Hospitals suck. She shouldn't see this. And you," he says. His eyes fall shut a moment, and every weary and terrible line shows up starkly on his face.
It rattles her, just how pale he looks, how much of that was an effort for his daughter.
His eyes flare open again, evidently he wants to hang on. "Stay. You know - what I was doing, have the story. Only fair. Keep me company, tell your version."
"Actually. I should-"
"First good story I've heard in years," he mumbles. "Wish I hadn't forgot you."
"I'm pretty boring," she says, smiling at the echo. He's looking at her now as he looked at her then. I don't believe you're boring at all.
"Sorry," he husks again. His mouth works slowly, his tongue moves at his gums. She can see how much effort it costs him. "I can't - should be able to remember you."
"It's fine," she tells him quietly. "Get some rest."
His hand shifts on top of the bed covers, his eyes twitch and open again. "I was solving a case?"
"Something like that."
He swallows and licks his lips; he's struggling so hard now that she takes an unwitting step closer. His eyes roam her face, intent and purposeful. "I could write a whole series of books about the mystery in your eyes."
She's suddenly aware of just how alone they are in the hospital room; the skin across his cheeks looks stretched too thin. Papery. His breathing sounds harsh. He's probably in as much pain as he admitted to his daughter as a cover story to get her to leave - or more.
"You need to rest," she insists.
"Saved your life. Should remember you," he sighs.
"I'll fill you in on the important parts," she soothes.
"Can see why I did," he mumbles. His mouth has lost its ability to form sounds correctly. "You're devastating. Beautiful."
"And you're on heavy narcotics," she smiles. Her back is stiffly straight; she wants only to get out of here. "Rest."
His next words are a hum in his throat and a sigh and he drifts away.
Kate stands very still for a long time, telling herself it's so he won't wake again and grow agitated alone. His mother and daughter went back to their apartment to get clothes and toiletries. The daughter wants to camp out in the waiting room; her grandmother is encouraging it.
She finally withdraws her hand from where it rests on the mattress, close to his hip but not quite, and she folds her arms across her chest.
He doesn't even know her.
She tries to make herself leave. She really tries.
But it's no good.
Day two finds her up at the hospital again, no reason she can explain, visiting on her lunch break. It comes out that Alexis has classes and Martha the big opening of that new Stoppard play and somehow it falls on Kate Beckett to remain.
Somehow she doesn't even mind.
While his daughter and mother say farewell, she makes a quick phone call to her detectives from the waiting room, composing her thoughts until Esposito answers.
"Javi," she starts quietly. "I'm going to stay up at the hospital for a while. I should be in the office tomorrow morning, but until then, have everything routed to my email."
"You're staying."
"Don't start, Detective."
He has a noise for her that she chooses to ignore, catching sight of Martha as she passes the waiting room. She steps out into the hall and finishes up with Esposito.
"Just dump my calls to voicemail; I'll check email every hour. If there's an emergency, I've got my phone on me."
She hangs up before he can debate with her; she doesn't encourage backtalk, but some push-back allows her to be flexible, a better leader to her precinct. Today she just doesn't have it in her.
"Martha," she calls.
The older woman startles at the end of the hall, nearly to the doors, and spins around. "Oh, Katherine!" She comes back, clasping Kate's hands in hers, gushing and meteoric in her relief, her flustered grief. "Thank you so much, darling. I don't think it's good for any of us to put a halt to our lives. Richard doesn't want that."
Except Kate is. She's halting her life. And she doesn't know why.
"I can stay for the rest of the afternoon," she says.
"And he'll sleep all night, so that's covered. In the morning, I'll come check on him."
"In the morning? Isn't your play-?"
Martha looks unconcerned. "It will be fine. You don't need to worry. Thank you, dear." She grasps Kate's hands and leans in to kiss both cheeks, leaving Kate a little stunned in her wake.
Martha disappears into the elevator and the hall is quiet, held breath waiting.
So Kate walks back to his room and eases open the door. It clicks as it releases the catch but Richard Castle doesn't rouse.
He's asleep. He's been asleep. She went in to work this morning and stared at her computer, her mind scattered, the cases open on her desk. She reviewed each one slowly, methodically, plotting points on the permanent whiteboard in her office, rehashing the details, arranging them together, then apart, then mixing elements.
She got nothing.
And this man in the bed has no idea who she is, let alone any cryptic clues about her mother's death.
She sat in her wood-paneled office and felt hope slip further and further out of her reach until it was gone.
So she came here.
Inside this starched white room with the sharp odor of vaseline and disinfectant, hope is a warm thing around her neck, making it hard to speak but so easy to believe - that this time, when he opens his eyes, all of it will be settled in the blue.
"Hey," he rasps.
She stirs from her thoughts and steps into the room, giving him a smile she can feel is pinched.
"You okay?"
She lets out a breath. "I'm not the one in ICU."
"You look sad," he husks.
"I'm okay. How are you?"
"Tired," he mouths. It barely comes out. She's been learning to decipher the sounds she hears, lip-reading and straining; he's so frustrated when his mother doesn't understand him. The doctor said it was the intubation - a little scarring on his vocal cords. His voice will return to normal given time and rest.
"I could leave. Let you sleep-"
His hand catches hers and immediately he grunts, lashes fluttering shut. Thick and full like a woman's - like a woman would long to have. A pale remnant of a freckle at the bridge of his nose. Dark shadows below his eyes. He had a tan this summer, she thinks; his skin is like parchment now.
"Don't go. Tell me."
"Tell you what?" she says carefully. Her fingers are not exactly trapped by his, but it would be unpleasant to attempt to extricate herself from that clammy grasp. "Rick? What do you need?"
"Tell me about me."
She blinks.
"You keep saying - I should know." His throat frustrates him; he growls and narrows his eyes, looking at a point on the ceiling. The bed is lowered because of the breathing machine, and he looks both massive and so small. Giant and child.
"Would you like to sit up?" she says.
His eyes dart to hers, eyebrows expressive and wide. "Yes. Yes, I - please."
She leans forward, using the moment to withdraw her fingers from his grasp, and she presses the button near his head. Two rounds in the chest, his dive in front of her like a blur, both of them falling.
The bed raises and he makes fists against his thighs, teeth gritting.
"Rick. Are you in pain?"
"It's okay; I'm okay," he chants. "I'm okay."
"I'm calling someone." She's not playing around, not when she was the one who put her hands in his chest, unable to stem the tide. "I'm calling the nurse."
"No," he gets out. "No, this is good. I can breathe."
Her hand hovers at the call button just beside his hip, too late, too slow, because his fingers wrap around hers and hang on again. His lips part in something like a panting smile.
"Better," he croaks.
"Liar," she says gravely.
He smiles. He's rather handsome when he smiles like that - so genuine. She finds herself smiling back.
And then his eyes open and catch her in the act, and now his grin is a blazing thing, a transformative thing.
"I usually have - lots of great lines," he garbles. "Words aren't - as free right now. Forgive me."
"It's possible that's a good thing," she admits. "I've seen you in interviews. I might shoot you myself."
His grin cracks wider. "I like you, Kate Beckett. Very dry."
She closes down on the smile, sinks back into discomfort, but he doesn't seem to notice. His thumb is tracing on the top of her hand and she has to sit down.
He turns his head and watches her, sleepiness limning his eyes. "Gonna tell me?"
"Tell you-? Oh. About yourself? Your two days of missing moments?"
His affirmative is lost in the way he braces himself against the pain, an arm up at his ribs, palm flat to his own sternum. She knows exactly where those wounds are, though she can't say she knows what he feels. She can only guess how it feels to be shot, and she has him to thank for saving her that intimate knowledge.
"I'll tell you, Rick, but I'm not the writer. It won't be nearly your caliber."
He husks something and drags his eyes to her, that smile flickering through his pain. "You're a fan..."
She tilts her head. "I know of you." Doesn't dim the woozy, adoring look he's giving her. "Though you haven't written anything new in years, have you?"
"Nothing to write. Least until now."
She lifts an eyebrow.
He curls his thumb into the cup of her palm. "You tell me like a police report; I'll write the story."