Kairos – Chapter 14
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
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Sunday Morning – April 28, 2013, 7:57 a.m., At Jim and Johanna Beckett's Home in New York City
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Johanna Beckett hums the very familiar Broadway tune as she walks, her steps feeling lighter than they have felt in years. She does – in fact – feel like she is defying gravity this morning. She and Jim awakened in great spirits, flush with excitement over their previous evening with their daughter. Their daughter who had surprised them with – first – a phone call and then second – with dinner. Okay, it was more accurately an 'after-dinner' dinner. It doesn't matter. She called. She said she was coming over.
And then she actually came over. As promised. That in itself was something worth celebrating.
It was quite the accomplishment for a woman who has grown to be both the pride and joy – professionally – of her parents, while at the same time offering case after case of predictable disappointment – personally. Kate Beckett doesn't give her family much of her time, so yeah, last night was special, all right.
"It's almost like she was a different person," Johanna had mentioned to her husband as they drifted off to sleep last night. "I almost didn't recognize her."
So, her steps this morning are light, not wanting to awaken their oft-prodigal daughter, as she approaches her bedroom. It's still her bedroom, even though her visits are . . . well, that's a dead horse already. Smiling, she opens the door, anxious to see her sleeping form, and her heart sinks immediately.
The bed is empty. More than that – the bed is completely made. It's exactly as Johanna has always left it. The insinuation is clear and unavoidable.
She didn't sleep here last night. Despite her promise – her promise – to return from whatever aid she was rendering last night, Kate never returned. Johanna immediately realizes what happened. Her daughter came, yeah, but then likely got a phone call from him.
The Senator.
And then she went running.
As usual.
She frowns, as the thought of her daughter in a relationship with the manipulative married man brings the same anger to the forefront as always. But her heart almost stops as she remembers those last words – that name, in particular – she heard from her daughter as she was leaving the house.
Castle.
"Oh, God," Johanna thinks, staring at the empty bed, now not sure what to make of last night's development, and what the empty bed in front of her means.
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Sunday Morning – April 28, 2013, 8:11 a.m., Still at Richard Castle's Loft
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The morning rays that bathe her face are both warm and harsh. She awakens with a start, not sure how long the intrusive light has been resting on her, but she immediately covers her eyes, and sits up. She shakes her head, her beautiful brown locks of hair appearing to move in slow motion. She reaches back behind her, allowing her hand to settle on the man she loves . . . but instead finds empty sheets where his body should be.
Glancing back, she sees his empty side of the bed. All the better. That was one hell of a dream last night. Probably the worst of nightmares she can imagine – and this from a woman who has seen enough nightmares – day or night – to write a book.
Except she's not the author. He is.
Now, where is he?
Her gaze moves toward the far wall, and yeah, there he is. He is sitting in the night chair, along the wall. And he's just staring at her. There's something about his eyes.
"Castle," she muses aloud, stretching as she twists her body, allowing her feet to touch the ground. The warm and thick plush carpet between her toes that she has come to . . . wait a minute.
"Where's the carpet?" she thinks to herself. She blinks a couple of times, and now she is noticing other things.
"No elephant on the wall," she thinks to herself, as her eyes open wider. No plush rug, no elephant on the wall . . .
She fixes him with a firm gaze and that's when she realizes what she sees in his eyes. She can't place what she sees, but it is almost . . . it's almost . . .
Regret. Disappointment. Determination.
"Oh my God," she whispers, standing quickly as she gets her bearings.
"It wasn't a dream, was it?" she says, looking at him. It's not a question. All of the events of yesterday are now rushing back to her. Her mother. Her father. Her sister. William Bracken. Oh, God.
Alexis.
"Castle?" she questions again, now suddenly very nervous. There had been no celebratory love-making last night, as she expected when they 'arrived' back and realized her mother was, indeed, alive. No toasts, no-self-congratulations, and certainly nothing intimate. She stares at the glassy look he gives her, and wonders if that is even a possibility anymore. Yeah, he let her sleep with him, but . . .
The very audacity of such a thought . . . he let her sleep with him? The Richard Castle who pushed, pulled, bullied and smoothed his way into her life? The man who mercilessly and mirthfully yanked her pigtails for years . . . this man allowing her to sleep with him?
She walks toward him, and only gets a few steps before she sees the empty bottle in his hand.
"Oh Rick," she almost whimpers, with tears quickly misting her eyes. She is gazing at her father all over again, in those first few hours where his demons arose and took over. The bottle dangles harmlessly from his first and middle fingers and his thumb. She glances down at her watch. She didn't have time – or even think – to take it off last night. Just after eight in the morning. And he's holding an empty bottle of bourbon in his hands.
"Good morning, Miss assistant district attorney," he mutters, his eyes rifling into hers, no expression in his voice. The greeting is so impersonal, and it cuts deep.
He's been awake now for over an hour, and has been in deep conversation with the admittedly now-lighter bottle of six-year old Jim Beam Devil's Cut Bourbon Whiskey. The conversation hasn't been a pleasant one. It has been consumed with thoughts of the Kate Beckett from his world, his timeline, and how she always seemed to find herself with the wrong man. Starting with her training instructor, to a couple of fellow cops, to a narcissistic, motorcycle driving doctor. It's merged with thoughts of this timeline's Kate Beckett, who apparently has similar bedtime habits, hooking up with a married Senator. And it had to be that Senator.
It has struck him – numerous times this morning – that their road always has been, and always will be a bumpy ride, a journey into unchartered and shark-infested waters.
"It seems," he begins, his voice dark, "that the universe seems committed – in any lifetime – to introduce darkness into our lives."
She opens her mouth to speak, but holds her tongue. Yesterday was the day from hell for Castle, she knows this. For all she knows, he is still in shock. Regardless, he has something on his mind, and he needs to talk. And just as importantly, she needs to hear what he is thinking.
"Whether we recognize the darkness and embrace it reject it is our choice – and evidently – a pattern, no matter which reality we find ourselves in."
He knows it's unfair to hold her responsible for his wife's death. But Bracken? Really? Both of those elements combined – he is struggling to get past them. And now his Kate and the Kate of this timeline are becoming blurred in his mind – it's wrong, it's unfair.
But he cannot help it.
It doesn't matter. His conversations with the strong, dark liquid this morning have – in fact – crystalized his thinking. While she slept, he has already planned his day out.
"I'm going back," he tells her quietly.
Her eyes grow large, and for a moment a fire erupts within. He sees it. He doesn't care. Nothing – and no one – is worth his baby girl.
"I'm going back," he repeats. "Don't worry. I won't kill your mother. Nothing so . . . draconian," he continues, and his tone offers no discussion, no negotiation. "But I will stop her from going to that book signing. I saved your mother. Now I will save my daughter. You're more than welcome to join me if you want."
"Castle, I . . . of course I want Alexis back," she tells him. "I want that for you more than anything, Rick," she continues, thankful that he hasn't made this an unwinnable 'your mother or my daughter' choice. Her mind flies back to a war movie about the impossible choice of a mother, and is thankful that he hasn't put her in that position.
"Of course I will come," she tells him. "I want to be there. I have to be there. I want this new life – with my parents, with your daughter. We couldn't possibly have known this would happen, Castle. But now we do."
"Thank you," he replies quietly. Truth be told, he wasn't sure how she would react. His Kate – sure, she'd be with him in a New York minute, as the saying goes. But this timeline's Kate?
Who knows . . .
It's almost as if she is reading his mind.
"I'm not her, Castle," Kate tries to remind him, as she moves next to him, sitting on her knees between his legs, glancing up at him. "Her history, the choices she has made. She is a different person, Rick. She is not me. I'm not her. I'm here. I'm right here. With you. My heart is with you. It wasn't me who made those choices. It was someone else. You know this, don't you?"
She is almost pleading now, as she can see him weighing her words. It also strikes her that he has probably been fighting this little battle in his head for a while this morning now. And the alcohol can't possibly have helped her cause.
Not at all.
"Just like you aren't him, Rick," she continues, and this catches his attention. His eyes flicker with more life, more fire. "You are the man who has written countless books – about Derek Storm, about Nikki Heat. You are the man who was brave enough to follow me, case after case. Danger after danger. Whoever this man is with your name in this timeline – whoever he is – he is not you. You are not him!" she tells him with emphasis.
"The choices he has made – this was not you!" she repeats, her hands on either of his knees. Her eyes drop to the bottle in his hands. She reaches for it, glancing in his eyes and shaking her head – and even if it is only a symbolic gesture, he gets it.
"I . . . you're right," he acknowledges, and the empty bottle slips from his fingers, yet doesn't shatter as it bounces harmlessly off the wooden floor next to Kate.
"Damn right, I'm right," she tells him, growing in confidence. It's something she had given much thought to last night as she watched him sleep next to her, spooned inside her, their positions reversed from their normal sleeping arrangement.
She had considered their new realities. It was a frightening proposition for her to accept. Alexis dead. She, herself, with another man. That man. And while Castle slept, she had grabbed her phone and started searching on the internet, searching this reality. She'd learned all about Meredith and Alexis, and their tragic deaths. She'd learned that he stopped writing. She'd learned that he'd become reclusive. She'd learned how Bracken has plucked her from an obscure, early attorney career. She idly wondered how – and why – he would select her. How could the universe be this cold, this calculating?
Yeah, it was frightening - until she remembered that she and Castle have one major, major advantage in this war against the universe that they have been thrust into.
They aren't unknowing participants in this new reality!
They have complete knowledge of what they consider to be their 'real' lives, their 'real' timelines. They don't have to accept this reality that they have been tossed into. They can reject it.
But going back in time again, to save Alexis? She has to honestly admit, that isn't something she'd truly considered, simply because she was tying that event – incorrectly – to her mother's life. But as Castle has suggested seconds ago, that's not the choice they need to limit themselves to. They can keep her mother alive, and still save his daughter.
And his wife.
For a brief instant, fear grips her heart as she considers the possibility – no, the likelihood – that they can go back and save Alexis and return to a reality where Castle is still happily married to Meredith and she, herself, is still . . . happily the mistress of a corrupt politician. Assuming Bracken is the same man in this timeline as he is in hers.
No matter. First things first. They have to take care of the problem at hand. Alexis is gone. They have to bring her back.
"So the question is, how are we going do this?" she asks him. "I know things are . . . different here for you now . . . I mean financially."
"Yeah," he replies, not offering anything more than the one-word response.
"So . . ."
He stares down at her for a moment before pulling himself up to a standing position. He reaches down, picking her up to her feet as well, and she notices his little hitch, and the brief instant of pain that etches his face before he recovers.
"What is it, Rick?" she asks.
"It's nothing," replies.
"No, it's not 'nothing'," she counters. "What happened? Why are you –"
"I'm going back, Kate," he interrupts. "I don't care what it costs me."
She begins to run her hands, gently but firmly along his legs, starting with his knees. Not seeing any response, she moves her hands further north, along and inside his thighs and around his hips. Getting no response, she gives him her best attempt at the Beckett stare.
"What's going on, Rick?" she asks.
He stares at her for a moment before relenting.
"My hip," he replies. "Something happened. Because of the trip we took. She told us that . . . well, now I know for certain what 'virtually' and 'almost' and 'nearly' mean."
She nods her head in understanding. She also realizes something that perhaps he does not. She's felt a pain in her chest. Right around her healed gunshot wound. Deep inside. Her heart has been damaged. It makes sense that – being torn down and put together again . . . twice – it makes sense that an already injured organ might come back . . . more damaged.
He doesn't need to know this, though. If he finds out, he won't let her come on this next trip. She knows this for certain.
"I'm sorry, Rick," she tell him, her hand falling to his hip, her fingers prodding gently. She won't even suggest he not go. She won't even suggest that she make the trip alone. He wouldn't allow it, she knows. Neither would she.
"So . . . what do we do?" she asks him.
"We go back to Kronologix," he tells her. "I certainly don't have millions of dollars . . . but Dr. Windholm knows we went back once, because she was there when we returned. So she has to have some knowledge of my . . . finances . . . we will have to appeal to her better nature."
"We might not have to," Kate tells him. "She moves away from him, and goes to the bed – to her side of the bed, and picks her phone off of the nightstand there. She walks slowly back to him, fiddling with her phone. When she returns to him, she hands him her phone.
"Look," is all she says to him.
He glances down at the small phone screen. It's a mobile bank application. Her account. His eyebrow raises in surprise as he looks at her bank balances
Checking, $22,347.19 Savings, $1,733,942.38
"How . . . How?" he asks.
"I don't want to know, Castle," she replies, and he sees the sadness in her eyes. There is no way – no way at all that the assistant district attorney should have this kind of money.
"You . . . you know who I . . . you know who this reality's Kate Beckett is with," she reminds him. "I am afraid, Castle . . . so afraid that . . ."
She can't finish the thought, or the sentence. He finishes it for her.
"You're afraid that this city's assistant district attorney may be very similar to the ex-assistant DA of our timeline, all those years ago."
"It has to be that," she tells him. "How else would I have this kind of money? How else would the Assistant DA have that kind of bank account?. And live in that kind of apartment."
"Nice?" he asks.
"Nicer than anything you've lived in . . . ever," she tells him softly.
"Whoa," he whistles.
"That includes your Hampton's home," she tells him.
"Which I doubt that I have here," he tells her.
"I'm sorry, Castle."
"Don't be," he tells her with a dismissive wave of the hand. "I don't plan on staying here."
He glances back down at her phone, at the amounts there.
"Kate, I'm not asking you to give –"
"No one is asking you to ask," she interrupts. "However I have gained this money . . . it is ours. There is enough for us to do this."
He pulls her into a soft hug, his mood darkened by guilt. Guilt over blaming her for this. Guilt over the feelings he allowed to enter his consciousness . . . and take root. Guilt over the knowledge that as soon as she found out the tragedy of this timeline, she immediately has made the decision to change it. Regardless of the financial costs.
"Thank you, Kate," he offers. It's not much. But for her, it's more than enough.
"What are we waiting for, Castle," she tells him. "Let's get dressed and get over to Kronologix."
"They will be closed," he reminds her. "Remember she mentioned that she gives everyone Sundays off to be with –"
"That was our timeline, babe," she interrupts, as she moves away from him, heading to take a shower that eluded her at three households last night. "We don't know that this reality's Dr. Windholm shares those beliefs."
She pulls her panties down as she enters the bathroom, and looks back.
"Not everything is the same here, anymore, in case you haven't noticed," she smiles, hoping to bring a smile to his face.
It works. Different universe. Same result. He follows her into the bathroom, and shuts the door as she turns on the shower.