A/N: Forgive me, forgive me for not individually responding to all of your wonderful reviews – I read them all and flail a bit over them – but I'm so pushed for any time at all right now – so GROUP THANK YOU – GROUP HUG – and much appreciation to you all.
Chapter Fifteen: These scars on my heart . . . I own them.
Three months and three weeks ago . . .
Castle stretches – both of his arms high above his head as he tries to get the kinks out that have taken up residence between his broad shoulders. It's always the same – once the writing bug bites him, and he writes in furious sessions that always leave him completely cramped up and sore. He's used to it - but it's definitely somewhat harder on his body now than it used to be – 'oh the joys' he thinks, of getting older.
Well older, and definitely slightly less 'in-shape' than he used to be. He thinks maybe with all this time on his hands he should do actually do something about that. Hmmmm.
The typewriter he's acquired has set up residence in the center of a desk Gabor has installed in Castle's bedroom for him, and it's a very strange experience for him to be writing on such an old-fashioned implement when he's so used to the swiftness and ease of a modern laptop. Each key stroke requires a lot more force and effort – so his fingers can't even begin to keep pace with his brain and to say that he's somewhat frustrated by it would be an understatement in the extreme – it's so slow! Still – it's much better than just a pen and paper would be, and there's a definite novelty – a sort of old fashioned 'whimsy' to the process that he can freely admit he does enjoy; kinda makes him feel 'at one' with the likes of Raymond Chandler and Agatha Christie.
That aside - his shoulders definitely hurt. He glances out through the gauzy sheer curtains that cover the balcony window and he sighs; it's sunny and warm again today and just like it occurs to the novelist that he is tired of writing today - and realizing that what he really needs right now – apart from his girls and his home - isto be outdoors.
He needs to move - to get his heart rate up. He closes down the immediate thought of his preferable ways to accomplish that – so painful – and focuses instead on the idea of maybe a run.
Castle pulls the latest finished page from the rollers and eyes it critically – of course the other pain in the ass thing about writing this way is how insanely frustrating it is to edit his work. Instead of moving paragraphs around or simply cutting them out he has to start over each time from the point he was last happy with it - it's either that or he has to cross things out all the time when he decides in the scheme of the story that something he's already written doesn't work.
He's only five chapters into the book – working closely to the outline he's previously mapped out, but already he's had to re-type page after page as he moves things subtlety around.
This latest 'Nikki Heat' endeavor seems to have decided for him that it'll all be attached firmly to his past experiences with the Twelfth – and he's finding himself twirling into the narrative characters and places that all connect back to prior cases he's worked with Kate. Even his current predicament has been firmly visited upon Jameson Rook and Gabor's involvement with the CIA also seems to have insisted on being included. He's shocked actually - considering the difficulty he's having with his current circumstances that he actually wants to go 'there' with this book at all.
Still, he never argues with the direction of the narrative when his mind seems to 'see' the entirety of the story in a certain way and he does - he sees clearly all the messages he's leaving in his work even if he doesn't exactly know right now why he's doing it. Especially when this book is really just an exercise to give him back something meaningful to do – but when he gets his life back – when he does - it'll be fun to publish it and then share all the hidden meaning in this work with others who will be able to find the clues too.
It makes writing the story more interesting – and he needs that right now- a definite goal to work towards. It helps to make a game of it - brings him that much closer emotionally to where he longs to be – with Kate.
He wanders slowly down the steep steps from the cliff-side villa onto the white Greek sand at their base. Its mid afternoon and the day is as hot as it going to get - in the high sixties – pleasant but not stifling and ideal for running so although he doesn't have running shoes here – clad in a t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts he heads off bare-footed along the sand. The tide is low today and he can round the jagged rock formation at the end of the bay when the wet sand is exposed like this, another beach on the tiny islands eastern side lets him extend his jog somewhat further.
It reminds him of running along the beach behind his vacation home in the Hampton's, which in turn takes his thoughts home and inevitably back to Kate and when the writer hits the far end of the second beach he slows and then finally stops – gasping for breath both because he hasn't done this in too long a period of time – and because he's suddenly struggling with a cascade of recent images in his head.
His daily six o'clock fifteen minute dose of home – the surveillance footage loop from New York of both Alexis and Kate – is proving to be a bit of mixed blessing.
One the up side of the equation - it's absolutely his lifeline in this surreal prison of his where every day just merges with the last one and the novelist struggles with his isolation - constantly fighting loneliness and the onset of depression in his efforts to remain sane. Seeing both of their faces on all those screens – all dated and time-stamped and every day is very reassuring - and Castle plays a game with himself each time where he quickly as possible tries to identify each and every location they appear to be – giving himself mental points on those rare occasions when he thinks he manages to nail them all.
But the down side has proven to be pretty gut wrenching at times as he's silently witnessed both Kate and Alexis in the act of breaking down – usually in the relative privacy of empty elevators or in quiet corridors or corners he doesn't recognize; and then yesterday he's sure he witnessed something he never ever thought – never dreamed he might see.
It hits him that maybe this is why he can't write any more today – why he's antsy and feeling the urge to move so badly - because what he saw he cannot decide on any level how he feels about it – but he's pretty darn positive that yesterday what he saw recorded was Kate Beckett's return to the NYPD.
She's gone back – he's absolutely convinced of it from the footage he viewed of her that appeared to be her in the Twelfth precinct's bullpen with a gun holster attached to her hip. And of course he's only guessing – but he imagines the motivation for her to do this is purely a need for some clout – some power – some right to actively participate in the hunt for him. It scares him because he fears that brings her closer – puts her more in danger from Valez surely? And yet Valez believes Castle is dead – so maybe that's protection enough – but still . . . it puts Kate back there and he's - he's just flat out freaked out about that.
And there's nothing he can do.
Yeah. So he needs to run again. He's about to start back the way he came but just then there is a sound from above and behind him, some small rocks from the cliff at his back skittering downwards and tumbling freely to join him on the sand. His gaze is instantly drawn up, and the writer is startled to find Gabor free-climbing the sheer cliff over his head – and doing it . . . downwards, by the looks of it.
Wow.
Castle stands clear and watches with rapt attention as his sixty-something father pulls a complete 'Derrick Storm' right there in front of him, descending the rock face quickly and agilely so that he can join his son on the warm sand below. The CIA agent leaps from the cliff when he reaches the last ten feet or so – landing quietly and with cat-like precision barely five feet from the author – a smug smile dancing in his vibrant eyes as they rise to seek his son's face.
There's a part of him that really doesn't want to reveal it, but the geek in him totally wins out and Castle can't help but look impressed.
"Wow." He tells Gabor. "That was . . . something."
The older man grins, and it's one of those weird uncanny moments when his son can't help but see his heritage clearly in the other man – not just the very obvious things like his build and his height and his eyes - but the more subtle indicators like the way his eyes crinkle up sometimes, and the curve of his mouth now as he smiles.
"You liked that huh?" Gabor asks him.
Castle nods, grinning now himself. "I didn't know you were back." He says, and he may not be aware of it but Gabor can hear the relief evident in his tone.
The agent has been absent once more since the day after he revealed the villa's hidden surveillance room and presented the novelist with the typewriter to use – he just seems to vanish overnight and obvious he can return just as mysteriously.
"Are you . . . are you back for long?" Castle inquires, hoping his voice is more even in reality than it internally sounds to him, Gabor is still his only company here - but even beyond that - it might be somewhat wary – but Castle honestly can't help it – he actually likes the man.
He understands what his mother must have seen in the young Gabor – once the harden spy shell is case aside – because there is a warmth and a fun – a sense of adventure about the man that virtually oozes out of his pores. He doesn't have the same sense of 'innocence' inherent in him that his son has managed to retain – but Castle imagines it was once there – when he was young, in the person who met Martha Rodgers. Castle can see now how the two of them could so easily have fallen for each other in day. It's a strange sort of sensation, but there's something 'relieving' for him in finally being able to picture both of his parents – together and in love.
Gabor dodges the question though and instead arches his eyebrow at Castle.
"Are you out . . . running?" He asks.
Castle nods – defensively.
"Yeah . . . so?"
The spy grins again and clasps Castle on the shoulder.
"So . . . nothing." He replies. "It's just good for me to see you taking care of yourself Richard. Honestly – I confess I've been worrying – and that's something I rarely tend to do – believe me in my line of work it's a pointless exercise, but it seems when it comes to you I can still manage it. I'm just relieved to come back and find you writing and staying active - that's all."
The writer's defensive posture softens.
"I just . . . . I needed to move." He says by way of explanation.
His father watches him assessingly and then just nods.
By unspoken agreement the two men begin head back towards the other end of the beach and the headland that will lead them to return to the villa. They walk in silence for a few minutes until Castle realizes that there is at least one burning question he does need an answer to - the one that's been eating him up inside all day.
"I need you to tell me if what I think I saw on the surveillance is true. I think Kate's gone back to the NYPD." He says it quietly, stopping on the sand and turning bright blue eyes full of fear and contradictions on his companion.
Something passes across his father's face that he can't for the moment decipher, and then the older man masks whatever it is, because he's almost emotionless when he speaks.
"Yes. I didn't expect it of her - but she has."
The novelist bites his lip.
"Because of me. Because I'm missing?" He clarifies.
The CIA agent nods and Castle closes his eyes.
Oh God Kate.
"Your disappearance – what Valez still thankfully believes is your murder has been given over to the purview of the FBI. I didn't tell you but that happened almost immediately. You're a high profile individual - you vanishing was never going to go unnoticed. The FBI - I honestly don't know where they're getting their intel from but for some reason they've stuck Kate at the top of their suspect list – with regards to you. I can tell you they are treating it more like a murder than a missing person's case. Which is good Richard – any way you come at it - it helps our cause with Valez, because he's sitting back and watching all of it unfold and he's loving every minute of this right now."
Tortured blue eyes fly open at this, and Castle's face contorts with incredulity.
"The FBI is operating under the premise that Kate . . . that she murdered me?"
"Yes."
The writer snorts.
"That's . . . seriously that's - ridiculous."
Gabor nods.
"I agree. But I assure you that from monitoring their investigation as well I can that they do. Kate must think so too because it's clear she's gone back to the NYPD purely to regain a legitimate sort of access. It's not her case, but your old team is certainly doing an admirable job of keeping the pressure on the FBI to share leads - bugging them for updates and developments and using their own access to police reports and databases to keep track of any reported sightings of you."
Castle's eyes light up.
"There are reported sightings of me?" He blurts out, looking intrigued.
"You've been gone for five weeks - of course people have reported 'seeing' you. That surprises you . . . really? You've worked with law enforcement for years - you must know how spurious these reports can tend to be." Gabor replies.
Castle nods.
"Well . . . yes. I guess it's just weird now that it's . . . well - me." He says.
Gabor laughs.
"Understandable."
The writer sobers.
"When did she go back?" He asks. "I mean how long after you took me did it take until she . . . "He trails off.
"Had to do something." Gabor finishes for him.
His son sighs, and the spy swears he can feel the weight of anguish behind it.
"Yeah. I just can't believe she'd go back - without me there to . . . it worries me – I feel like she's naked and unprotected and - alone." His voice breaks on the last word.
"She has great partners." Gabor points out. "And she loves you Richard. I confess I should have seen it too, because this is - when you think about it exactly what she would feel she needs to do."
The writer nods unhappily.
"She was just so happy you know. So free of all of it . . . before - I mean. She walked away from that whole life in order to build a better life with me - and now because of me she's been thrown right back in. And I hate it."
The silence stretches between them.
"I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry Richard." His father says softly.
Castle looks at him – sees the genuine sorrow he's feeling reflected back at him in his father's identical eyes.
"I know you are." He says resigned. "I know I am too."