Chapter 7

First thing Castle did after coming home was to hug his lovely daughter nice and tight. It had been a month and a week since he'd been away from home, toiling day and night to earn his bread and butter. Contrary to popular belief, research is not easy. Take Kate Beckett, for instance. Not easy – quite the opposite. Tough as nails and more complex than Fermat's last theorem, that's what she was.

One day she'd been talking to him, finally opening up, cracking jokes, dare he say – flirting. The next day she was snapping at him when for once he didn't even do anything. No provocation from his side. A stupid joke, which on any other day would have earned him a chuckle at best, and an eye roll at worst. There was definitely something wrong, but he didn't know what; and more than anything else – more than feeling hurt – he felt helpless that he couldn't make it alright.

That being said, he was hurt, and worried. Their little phone connection had been going so well up to that point that this had felt like an unfair blow. Fleetingly he thought that maybe he should have seen it coming. It felt too good to be true, and maybe it was. Then he tried to think about things from her perspective. He pondered over what would warrant such a reaction, and tried to think back on the times when she'd been like that before.

Those were the times where the case had gotten too overwhelming, and Kate had some trouble dealing with overwhelming. He always thought that it was a point of pride for her. To not be able to disengage such situations would be akin to admitting defeat, and that too would not be something she'd be willing to do. To put it simply, she had trouble letting go. That much he knew about her. Sometimes it was a good thing; a great thing. When it was; it was labeled determination, persistence, perseverance, tenacity, resolve. When it wasn't; it was labeled pig-headedness, stubbornness, obstinacy.

More often than not, he saw it as something good – but he was biased. If he were to be honest; he was in love with her. It was like having rainbow vision. Everything was Kate Beckett, and nothing hurt.

It got him to thinking that he'd just called at the wrong time. Or. Or – he'd called at precisely the correct time. It was a sign from the universe. It was his calling. He would go to her, be at her side, show that he's committed – as a friend; or more if she allowed herself to see it. He's committed to the good times and the bad. 'For better or worse.' He wasn't one to shun signs from the universe. Nope. If the universe had something to say, Richard Castle was all ears – especially when it came to Beckett.

Armed with a plan, he all but ran to his bedroom at the Hamptons and zoomed around like an excited electron, packing his bag. Actually, he packed a lot of his spoiled clothes. Might as well take 'em home, do laundry. His things were home anyway, and it wasn't like he was headed to a place far away. Quickly tossing the single bag into his car, he was bound for New York. The invisible tether between Kate and him tugged till he got the message.

When he got back, after hugging it out with Alexis, and spending a good hour before she cut out on him to visit her friends, he had a quick, unusually wise chat with Martha. While his attention was on Alexis, she hadn't said anything concerning him. Once she left though, it felt like she was examining him – like she was using some kind of mother-vision and mind reading voodoo thing to dissect him. His thoughts were somewhat confirmed when she rose from her place at the kitchen counted to pat him on the head. He tried to look mildly indignant.

"What did you do this time?" she asked.

"Huh? What did I do?" Really, what was with everyone assuming that he was the one who was up to something? Although, to be fair, whenever something happened, he'd automatically wrack his brain to make sure that he hadn't been the one to do it.

"You didn't come back to New York for clean underwear, Richard. You came for that pretty young lady who just left the house, and a beautiful detective who probably has no idea you're here."

He shifted his feet uncomfortably and looked away from her gaze. Between all the humor and drama that they were used to, he sometimes forgot that Martha was a clever woman. He couldn't always be sure of which traits he'd inherited from Martha, and which from his absconding father – didn't have a baseline for comparison. But he knew that his ability to read people; essentially character study; those were Rodgers' genes.

"Come now, Richard. Have a seat, tell me what you did."

He sighed, relenting, and finally sitting down. "I didn't do anything," he started, "and the disbelief is really touching, mother; but for once it's true." He went on to explain the conversation he'd had with Kate earlier in the day. To his surprise, Martha said very little, and at the end of his retelling, she gracefully got up from her seat next to him, and patted his shoulder before heading to her room.

"Don't show up empty handed," were her only words of advice. They were enough.

Encouraged by the fact that he had his mother's blessing – also that if things went south with Kate, he was prepared to pass this off as being half Martha's idea – he headed to the coffee shop. You can't get a girl hooked and then disappear on her, Castle.

With her order, and his, in hand, he once again quickly assessed the situation. This was one of those situations; he thought again, where Kate would be trying too hard. He was sure about it – kind of. So he called Ryan.

"Castle! Bro! It's good to hear from you," Ryan answered enthusiastically.

"Hey, Ryan, my man! It's good to hear you, too."

"What's up? Living it up while the rest of us struggle through life?" he joked.

"Ah, actually –"

"Uh oh."

"Hey! I wasn't even here to do anything," he said, affronted. This was getting ridiculous.

"Hah. I'm sure you can manage if you really try."

"Thanks, I think?"

"You said you weren't here. Does that mean you're back now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, uh –"

"Beckett's probably still at the twelfth, staring at the murder board."

"I didn't ask."

"You were going to."

"Yeah," he said truthfully. "Do you know why she's mad at me?"

"She's mad at everyone, and everything. Bad case, stupid day – just one of those days, you know. We all have them."

"That's what I figured."

"Get her to go home, Castle. She's running low on sleep, and high on a bad mood."

"I'll do my best."

"I know you will. I'll let you get to it."

"Ryan, thanks."

"Anything, Castle. See you around the precinct?"

"You can bet on it."

As he stood in front of the lobby elevator at the twelfth precinct, he took a moment to notice how very serene it seemed tonight. It was empty but for the few security personnel. It probably ought to have seemed eerie – the quiet of the lonely night fitting quite well with the general mood – but to him it just felt like he was getting home after a really busy day. Ready to…ready to see his work wife. A thought he should keep to himself. It probably wasn't a good idea to barge into the bullpen and shout, "honey, I'm home" like he wanted to. He figured she wouldn't be in the mood to appreciate it. Eh. Maybe next time.

The elevator dropped him off at his destination, and he found himself feeling nervous. Nervous about seeing her after so long, of whether she would appreciate seeing him here, or whether she'd flip her lid. Further flip her lid, in any case. His eyes scanned the room, coming up empty. She wasn't at her desk, though the lights were on – so she was still around.

He listened carefully for signs of life, and he heard them – it. The coffee machine whirred, and clanged, and hissed. Of course he would find her there. For a minute he only slightly regretted his hesitance outside the precinct. If she was already having coffee, maybe she wouldn't accept his, and that would sting.

Squaring his shoulders, he headed to the break room.

She stood with her back to him, waiting for their coffee machine to finish brewing a fresh cup. He watched silently from the entrance, as the machine hissed and dripped. She reached for it too fast, not enough time for him to warn her. He watched helplessly as the next wave of steam hit her hand. She yelped in pain and drew her hand back, but not before quickly whacking the machine with the same hand. It was funny how she drew complex, often contrasting reactions from him. He was both concerned, and on the verge of laughter.

Then she let loose a verbal barrage of expletives on the poor machine, and he was just plain impressed. Also slightly turned on, but that was nothing new. But she was tightly holding on to the counter, and looked like she was in pain – not just physical either. It looked like she'd had enough.

He'd had enough. He couldn't take it anymore. "I don't know why you're angry. But don't harm the innocent coffee machine, Beckett. Not its fault you're a caffeine junkie who can't wait for it to settle before diving for your cuppa."

He saw her stop breathing. It was a successful surprise, it seemed. Just remained to be seen whether it was a good or bad one. Her apparent shock bolstered him with courage, and he lost the slump of his shoulders, and the preemptive preparedness to fight her – all he wanted to do was to take care of her. He took her hand in his, trying to be as gentle as possible so he wouldn't hurt her more; and he tugged her towards the sink, under some running water.

She was watching him intently, still somewhat in shock, as he noticed from the corner of his eyes. But his sight was glued to her not slightly pinker hand. The water flowed smoothly over her arms, kissing every inch of skin in its path, and he wished, so much, that he could do the same. That he could heal her wounds with his touch. Reluctantly and with some measure of difficult, he looked away from her hand to look at her instead. To look into those green-speckled brown eyes that still held surprise – and dare he say, pleasure? – at seeing him next to her.

He lips were slightly parted, and his eyes kept getting drawn there. No matter how much he tried to force himself to look away, he couldn't. His eyes scanned her face, the face that he'd been imagining over the last several weeks when he spoke to her; the face that expressed more than words possibly could; the face that he missed, and was in love with.

It hit him with such force that he suddenly looked back into her eyes that hadn't moved from his. Feeling slightly concerned that she still hadn't said anything; he gave her a small smile that he hoped was reassuring. He started telling her about how he'd gotten her coffee, when suddenly his arms were full of Beckett. She'd hugged him so hard that he lost his breath for a minute, and right then he was having trouble remembering a time when he'd ever felt better in his entire life.

As per their norm, he joked lamely about her really loving coffee, and finally – finally he heard a chuckle and, what sounded suspiciously like a sob as she turned her face into his neck. It took all his might not to shiver from the feeling of having her so close to him. He held on tighter to her, to stop himself from pushing her just away enough to kiss her crazy.

She apologized, and any residual hurt or anger abruptly left him when he saw how close she was to crying. She didn't do crying. It was disturbing to see her so vulnerable. He really, really wanted to kiss it better. He did his best to calm her, and when it seemed to dawn on her just how close they were to each other, she suddenly pulled back, looking just a little mortified.

He explained to her why he came back, half relying on their usual deflecting mechanism of laughter. But this time he came out with the truth, frankly. He didn't want things to remain in a state of limbo between them – not knowing which direction they would go. It was unacceptable.

She thanked him for the coffee, and he told her about how he was going to try his damdnest to convince her to go to the Hamptons with him, over the next week when he'd spend most of his time with her. Hearing her 'okay' had made any anxiety of his decision to come back, vanish in an instant. He knew he was smiling too widely, because his jaw hurt, and he didn't care!

Impulsively, he hugged her again, and it felt so good to finally have her in his arms. She was soft, and compliant, and not intent on killing him. It was like a dream come true. Better than every hug he'd shared with her in his dreams and he hoped that they would continue this new hugging thing for a long time to come.

As badly as he wanted to carry her out of the place, instead he did what he thought she would appreciate more. Something that she needed at this point – and he would give it to her. He would scrounge the ends of the Earth trying to find what she needed, if she let him.

And so he asked her to tell him about the case. To get this thing – this thing that had been weighing her down all day – off just her shoulder. Kate wasn't the kind of person who would appreciate someone – no matter whom – trying to solve her problems for her. But he could at least get her to share her burdens, so her shoulders were that much lighter from carrying the weight of the world.

They joked, and parried back and forth, about this and that – about the case and not; about everything and nothing. It was comfortable, and easy, and good. Silently, in the confines of his mind, he gave himself a proverbial pat on the back for making the call that would possibly save their relationship. He was in it for the long haul, and as she explained the details of the case to him, completely oblivious to the fact that her fingers were playing with his – dancing and caressing, weaving in and out, in and out from between his fingers; he thought that she was finally starting to see it too.