Kairos – Chapter 16
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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A/N: Hi there. I hope everyone is doing well. I know the plan was to post 3 chapters a day, but I think Chapter 16 will be it for today. I think this is a good stopping point for one day. I hope you agree. We are headed out the door to orientation, and I will either post 17 tonight, or 17 and 18 tomorrow. Thanks for the reviews and especially all the PM's – interesting and highly entertaining discussions, as always.
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Sunday Morning – April 28, 2013, 11:27 a.m., At the Kronologix Facility in Brooklyn, New York
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Castle slips the smooth, dark bracelet over his large fingers, allowing it to settle on his wrist, and watches Kate Beckett duplicate the action for herself. Both are standing outside the large cylinder that takes up most of the transport room here, seven floors below the street surface. He idly wonders – again – why this is so far below the earth's surface. Is there a scientific reason for this, one that allows for the destruction, transmission and reconstruction?
No matter – he walks to the computer terminal, per protocol, and enters in the coordinates and the timeframe.
Kate looks over his shoulder as he plugs in the time and date for this particular trip.
November 17, 1999
He notices the hitch in her breathing as she gasps as he enters the date.
Her birthday.
Alexis and Meredith, killed in a car-pedestrian accident on her twentieth birthday – hit by a car where her mother was the passenger.
Yeah, the universe does love its little ironies.
He sadly nods his head at Kate, grabbing her hand, and leads them toward the entrance of the transport cylinder, when Dr. Windholm addresses them both, once again.
"I'd have you sign the appropriate documents again, but I think we all know that would be a waste of time, given your current plans," she tells them. "Let me remind you again, that you only have one hour before the bracelets bring you back, so you will need to act –"
"One hour?!" Castle and Kate both ask, incredulously.
"What do you mean 'one hour'?" Kate questions agitatedly.
"Last time we went, we had twenty hours!" Castle exclaims.
"We only took fifteen hours, I grant you, but . . . what do you mean we only have one hour?" Kate asks again.
"Twenty hours?" Dr. Windholm asks, eyebrows raised. "Why on earth would I want to give anyone twenty hours in the past, if the only reason to go back is to observe and document? Twenty hours? Fifteen hours? That's just begging someone to do something stupid. Which, let me again point out, you did!"
"I . . . well . . ." Castle is fumbling for words.
"You're telling me that my . . . my doppelganger from your timeline allowed visitors to travel back in time for up to twenty hours?" the scientist asks the couple in disbelief.
"Well, yes . . . that's what we are –"
"That's ridiculous," Windholm interrupts. "One hour. You have one hour. Not a second more. I'm sorry – but everything here has been programmed and calibrated for just one hour. I refuse to believe that you are telling me . . ."
She doesn't bother to complete the sentence. Evidently, the version of Dr. Windholm in their timeline was either too trusting, or highly manipulative. There is no way someone can spend almost a full day in the past without – intentionally or unintentionally – altering some element of that past. Just being there in the past is an alteration in and of itself. But to be there for darn near a full day? No. It's a ridiculous notion.
In this timeline, some of her staff have argued – passionately, often and vigorously – that even one hour is too long. Some have taken the stance that – for observation purposes – thirty minutes is plenty of time. Others have argued that going back to watch the great battles in history, going back to watch the greatest events of history – that a single hour is too little time to document the Battle of the Little Big Horn, to visually record the Battle of Waterloo, to visually record the crucifixion of Christ, to visually capture the storming of the Bastille.
In the end, they all agreed – some more reluctantly than others – that it is just asking for trouble to place a human being back in time for more than an hour without expecting something to - intentionally or inadvertently - be impacted by their visit.
"One hour, Mr. Castle, Miss Beckett," Dr. Windholm repeats as she ushers both into the transport device.
No longer novices at this point, Castle takes his place at one end of the transport cylinder, while Kate stands on the other side. Both are gazing expectantly at the other, both now re-computing in their minds what they have to do, now knowing that they have far less time to accomplish their tasks. They may not have enough time . . .
As expected, the transparent wall drops from the ceiling between them. Neither are startled this time. Castle walks toward her, and sees the nervousness in her eyes as well. Time and tasks aside, it is the trip itself that is suddenly on both of their minds as the transparent wall drops. The experience of one's body being torn down into transportable data is . . . well, they know - from prior experience - that it is far from painless.
Both of their attentions are deflected to Dr. Sandra Windholm, now, as they hear her familiar count down. Somehow, familiar is comforting for this brief instant.
Three.
Two.
One.
Castle gazes at Kate, and sees her mouth open, her eyes widen, and a second later, before he can react, he is staring at the white, translucent residue outlining her body – a body that is no longer there. The powder begins to fall harmlessly to the ground. It is a sight that he will never get used to.
He is staring at the powder on the ground when he hears his own countdown.
Three.
Two.
One.
He throws his head back, as a quick flash of blinding pain assaults his body. And he is gone.
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Wednesday Morning – November 17, 1999, 9:49 a.m., A few minutes outside Central Park in New York
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Richard Castle glances at his watch and then back to the streets and buildings that fly by. Fifty-two minutes and counting. They've been back here in 1999 for eight minutes now. Three of those minutes have been spent inside this cab that they hailed as soon as they came out of the park.
Castle is – as one would expect – in decidedly better spirits now, if for no other reason than the simple fact that Alexis is alive. Yeah, it is almost fourteen years in the past, but she's still alive. He aims to keep it that way.
"Ten minutes to the bookstore," Kate tells him, grabbing his hand as they are now recalculating everything on the fly. They expected to have a lot more time than this.
According to the records from 2013 in their revised timeline, the accident was estimated to have occurred at 10:17 in the morning. The first 911 call had been placed at 10:19 – roughly two minutes later. They have given themselves just over thirty minutes to get there. Given that it is a fifteen minute cab ride, they should be fine. They should get to the bookstore around ten o'clock.
The plan is simple. Castle can't get too close to the bookstore. He can't risk – one – being seen by his doppelganger, and – two – he cannot get within fifty feet of the Richard Castle of this era. Doing so will mean death.
His death.
Recalling the words of Dr. Windholm – okay, the original Dr. Windholm – the bracelet will ensure the destruction of its wearer if the fifty foot proximity barrier is broken. His mind takes him back, and he is hearing the doctor's words once again.
"The time traveler will always be extinguished at the expense of the original owner of that time period when traveling to the past."
So this is Kate's operation to run.
They will stop a block away from the bookstore, and Kate will make the final trek there on her own, waiting for Meredith and Alexis to show up. She has one job, and one job only. Keep them away from the front door. It's a simple delay tactic.
According to records, the cabbie's brakes went out, and the driver swerved onto the sidewalk instead of back into the street into traffic, or simply running into the parked vehicle at the curb. It was an impossible choice for the driver.
"You ready?" he asks her.
"Yes, babe," she replies. "I know what to do."
"I know you do," he replies, feeling a bit guilty, and very much uneasy at being reduced to a bystander. "It's just that –"
"Babe," she interrupts, squeezing his hand. "I won't insult you and tell you this is as important to me as it is to you . . . but it darn near is, okay? I've got this. I won't let anything happen to Alexis."
"Or Meredith," he adds.
"Well," she muses with a smile, "I'm not sure that saving the deep-fried twinkie you kept in your back pocket is the smartest move I could make."
"Beckett!" he whispers with some force, and shakes his head at her laughter.
They are quiet for the remaining few minutes of the ride, both lost in their own thoughts.
For Castle, this is about saving his daughter, and his ex-wife.
For Kate, it is that – plus the chance to see a younger version of her mother once again – if she can risk a glance back, that is.
His heart begins to race faster as he sees the cab driver pull over to the curb. They are a block away from the bookstore. Just the knowledge that he is a block away from himself . . . that he has a chance to see how others see him . . . it's almost overwhelming.
Then again, so is self-preservation, so no, he won't have to fight any unnatural urges to go and 'see himself', thank you very much. He's trusted Kate Beckett with so much already. He's trusted her with his life on more than one occasion.
He can trust her with the life of his daughter.
They exit the cab, and she falls into an easy rhythm next to him. They walk in silence until she points the bookstore out to him, some fifty yards ahead, and still across the street from where they currently stand.
"Game-time," she tells him. "You stay here."
She turns to him, and pulls his chin down to her lips, kissing him softly and quickly.
"And Castle," she reminds him. "For you own sake – and I mean that literally – for once when I tell you to 'stay here' . . . do it," she smiles. Before he can reply, she turns and starts a graceful jog across the street, ignoring the passenger walking lanes some fifty yards ahead of them.
"Jaywalker", he mutters to himself, and he knows it is simply his nerves. This is his daughter they are talking about. He does not like leaving the prospects of her life or death in anyone else's hands other than his own. Even hers.
Kate is a wonderful substitute, he acknowledges, but his paternal instincts are kicking in. He finds himself – despite her warnings and the warnings of the doctor – he finds himself wandering further down the street, down the block, when suddenly he feels a sharp pain in his wrist – right below the bracelet.
"Okay, okay!" he submits, quickly falling back a couple of steps. The pain subsides, and he tries, unsuccessfully, to rub the offending area underneath the bracelet. He is quickly recognizing the wisdom of limiting a traveler to one hour in the past, as he glances across the street, offering up a silent prayer.
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Minutes Later, Wednesday Morning – November 17, 1999, 10:15 a.m., at a bookstore in the city
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Kate's breath catches as she watches Meredith and Alexis exit the cab some forty feet away from her, past the wood and glass entrance of the bookstore. The mother and daughter are all smiles and giggles, and for a brief instant, a sharp pang of jealousy and doubt hammers the detective – slash – assistant district attorney.
It's ridiculous, of course, because Castle loves her – not this version of a past wife coming toward her.
He loves her. She knows this. And she loves him. No, she doesn't tell him this nearly enough, she realizes – and that realization crystalizes in the instant that she sees the beautiful red-headed woman, walking toward her, hand-in-hand with his daughter. In this reality, Castle and Meredith are still married. Happily it appears, because the woman is – indeed – very pregnant – as they walk toward her.
Yeah, the doubts are creeping in. When they go back, his daughter will be alive, yeah, but odds are that Meredith will still be his wife. Where will that leave them?
Where will that leave her?
Plus, they only have time to do one thing on this trip. That is to save his daughter. They don't have time to do anything for Javier or Kevin. That's years away, still. She wonders how many of these trips they will be able to make. How many they will be able to afford to make. Financially and physically. She idly touches her chest, noting the slight increase in pain there. She pushes the thoughts out of her head, as she approaches the mother and daughter.
Kate's hair is pulled up into a bun, and she wears her large, dark sunglasses. They don't know her, at all. But the disguise isn't for now. The disguise is so they don't recognize her later – years from now – as their savior, and wonder how the Assistant DA can look exactly the same, some fourteen years later after a life-saving event that neither is likely to forget.
Less than five feet from the mother and daughter, she pulls out her NYPD badge – thank God she still has this – and calls out to the women.
"NYPD!" she says loudly, showing the surprised couple her badge and then using both hands to jostle the two backwards, away from the bookstore.
"I need you both to come with me, just for a few moments," she tells them women. Meredith, to her credit, does not put up fight, but instead allows Kate to move them backwards, forcing both of them to turn and almost jog with her. She's moving them quickly now as she hears the long, siren-like sound of a honking horn and a couple of screams behind her.
She hears the explosion of glass and wood, an awful sound as the cab crashes into the front window, slowed by the light pole on the corner. She fights her first instinct – which is to look back. She can't risk Johanna – her mother – seeing her either. Knowing that Castle's wife and daughter are now safe, she disengages from both.
"Uh . . . I'm sorry," she tells Meredith. "I am afraid I have made a mistake. Have a good day." With that, Kate jogs off, with Meredith's attention going back and forth between this mystery woman and the scene of the crash now some fifty yards in front of her. Only now is she starting to piece things together. This stranger has saved her. Saved Alexis. Had she not shown up, they would have either been at the door, or just inside the store when the cab hit. Either way, they would have most likely been killed.
Meredith whips her head back across the street, in the direction where the stranger had taken off towards. The woman is gone. She glances up and down the street, to no avail. The screams from inside the bookstore catch her attention.
"Richard!" she suddenly yells aloud, remembering that her husband is inside that bookstore. Now, her husband's well-being her only concern, she dashes quickly toward the retail establishment, Alexis in tow, to make sure that he is safe and sound.
Across the street, a tearful reunion occurs between two visitors who are quickly hailing a cab to take them back to Central Park.
Sunday Morning – April 28, 2013, 11:30 a.m., At the Kronologix Facility in Brooklyn, New York
He hears his own scream as the lights from the transport room flood his consciousness. Just as quickly the pain is gone.
Well, almost. He instinctively reaches for his hip. The ache is much more pronounced now. His lips purse in concern, as his eyes narrow, glancing down his leg. His eyes come back up and meet those of Kate Beckett, who is across from him in the transport cylinder, eyeing him curiously.
The transparent wall slides upward, and she quickly walks toward him.
"What's wrong?" she asks, and at the same time, the same question is being asked aloud by Dr. Windholm, who has noticed also.
"Are you all right, Mr. Castle?" the doctor asks, concern clearly evident in her voice.
"Nothing," he lies, his face immediately falling back into the carefree Richard Castle. He can't let them know anything is wrong, because he knows this isn't the last trip they have to make. They still need to save Javier and Kevin.
"First things first," he tells the two women as he whisks his cell phone out and immediately pulls up Alexis' contact screen. Touching her number, he listens as one ring, then a second, then a third sing in his ears. He's about to be concerned when he hears the familiar voice on the other end.
"Dad?" Alexis asks. "This . . . this is a surprise."
"Hey pumpkin," he replies, tears of joy in his eyes, offering a thumbs-up to Kate and the doctor. Kate has never seen him smile brighter or longer.
A smile of relief floods Kate's face, realizing that they were successful. Not only that – nothing else untoward has happened to the now young woman, in the thirteen-plus years that have transpired – in seconds for her and Castle – since the accident at the bookstore.
'Hey . . . uh . . . how are you Dad?" Alexis asks, and he hears the hesitation in her voice. And something else he cannot place. She seems almost . . . no, he pushes the thought away. He's just jumpy, and on edge – and for good reason.
"I'm good," he tells her. "I just wanted to hear your voice, that's all."
"Really?" she asks. "Since wh-"
She cuts herself off, halting the offending words before they completely leave her mouth. He's reaching out to her. That's new, in itself.
"Where are you?" he asks, a nagging concern drifting into his voice.
"At home," she replies.
"Great," he tells her. "I'm on my way. I will see you in bit."
"What?!" she replies in disbelief, but he doesn't hear this. He's already hung up. She hangs up, and puts her phone down on the nightstand.
Castle, for his part, is now moving, quickly.
"Let's go," he tells Kate. "Something's wrong."
"Mr. Castle, is everything all right?" Dr. Windholm ask again, as the couple rush out of room. "I hope that the trip was to your liking for both of you."
Kate offers a glare at the doctor, who immediately backs away unconsciously, confused by Kate's reaction. She reaches for Castle who is now rapidly in motion.
"Not now, Kate," he tells her, then glances backward. "Thank you, Doctor. For everything." He gives the doctor his brightest smile.
Minutes later they are outside, hailing a cab.
"You want to tell me what's wrong, Castle?" Kate asks, now slightly perturbed at his actions.
"Couple of things," he tells her. "First, Dr. Windholm was a lot nicer to us, more friendly to us when we returned. Which means that the timeline has reset again, and somehow, she doesn't remember the reason we went back this time."
"Or that this may have even been our second time," Kate muses aloud.
"Yeah," he agrees, "you might have a point there."
He considers this for a moment, but then changes gears.
"Anyway, something is wrong at home," he tells her. "Alexis is alive, don't get me wrong. But she . . . she was . . . it's almost as if she was surprised to hear from me. Or that she . . . she didn't want to hear from me. I don't know. I just know something's wrong."
"Are you sure, Castle?" Kate tells him. "I mean, after all we have seen already, are you sure you are . . . are you sure you aren't looking for something to be wrong. The doctor was different, and we know how timelines can dramatically change . . ."
"Maybe," he admits. "But I know Alexis. I know her mannerisms. This was . . . off . . . no, something is wrong here."
A cab pulls over to the curb and couple slides in.
"We're taking me to the loft," he tells her. "That's our first stop. My first stop," he corrects himself. "Then you are going to keep going, to your mother's house. That's the safest place for you right now. It's Sunday, so you aren't expected to be at work. At least I hope not. And who knows what . . . or rather, who . . . might be waiting for you at your apartment."
She nods her head, frowning. It makes sense. She can't just show up at his loft. Bringing the Assistant DA to his loft will invite questions. Questions from his wife, who for all they know, is still going to be there. Questions they don't have answers for right now. In this new, revised timeline, Kate hasn't been to his loft. Martha shouldn't know her. Neither should Alexis. And neither, hopefully, should Meredith. Perhaps they know of her – in her role for the city. But that's it.
The plan was to save Alexis. They've done that. Now, both of them are still – most likely – in relationships with someone else, as he tells her.
"Right now, we don't know who you are with, or who I am with," he continues. "I will go to the loft to figure my piece of this out. You go to your mother's, and figure that piece out."
"Actually, I will go to my apartment, Castle," she tells him. "Whatever is there, better that I find that out first-hand, and get my bearings."
"Fine," he tells her. "We can meet up later today . . . this afternoon or tonight."
"That makes sense," she agrees. "Six o'clock?"
"That works," he tells her, and they both fall into a comfortable silence, each in their own thoughts now, their fingers interlocked. Each considers what may be waiting for them at home.
Some thirty minutes later, the cab pulls over in front of his loft. He leans over, giving her a soft kiss which she extends.
"I love you, Kate," he tells her.
"I love you, Castle," she replies, smiling softly. "Call me."
"I will. As soon as I get the lay of the land here," he promises.
"Me, too," she remarks. He bangs the roof of the cab a couple of times, and watches as the vehicle pulls away. He turns his attention to the front door of his building, and steels himself with a deep breath.
"Here we go," he whispers to himself as he walks through the door into the building lobby.
"Hello Mr. Castle," he hears Mike Monroe greet him, and his face drops, disappointed at the formal greeting from the man who – for the past four or five years – has become a very good friend with whom he has often been on a first-name basis. And even when they haven't, well . . . this greeting is all too formal in his tone.
"Strike one," he mutters under his breath before recomposing himself.
"Hi Mike," he replies. "Always good to see you, my friend," he tells him, seeing the surprise in the man's eyes.
"No matter," he thinks to himself. "The past is past. I can change the present. I can change the future," he tells himself silently, as he walks toward the elevator.
"Is Alexis still here?" he asks the security guard as he waits for the elevator car to arrive.
"Alexis? Your daughter, you mean?" Mike replies. "Uh . . . no, sir. She's not here. She hasn't been here in . . . gosh, years, Mr. Castle. Are you expecting her?"
"Strike two," Castle whispers sadly to himself, shaking his head. Yeah, it was all too good to be true. Evidently 'home' is not here for his daughter.
"My wife?" Castle asks weakly, now completely unprepared for whatever answer Mike Monroe gives him, either way.
"Yeah, she's up there," the guard replies with a smile.
Okay, at least that much is the same. Castle isn't sure whether to be happy about Meredith still being here at the loft, as his wife, or not. The door opens, and he steps onto the car, wondering where Alexis might be. College is one answer – and that settles well with him. For a while, Alexis wanted to go to Stanford, and even across the pond to the UK. At least his Alexis wanted those things.
"Thanks Mike," he tells the man as the doors close. He takes a few deep breaths, gathering his thoughts. What in the world is he going to say to Meredith? How does he greet a wife that – in his mind and heart – is not his wife? A woman he no longer loves. Not in that way. How does he greet a woman who is likely still deeply in love with him, when those feelings are not reciprocal?
Given the emotional battle going on in his head, the elevator ride is far too short. The doors open and he walks out. His steps are short and guarded. He knows he is stalling, and that brings a chuckle to his lips. He finally reaches the door to his loft home and chuckles again as he hesitates and almost knocks on the door. That's how out of place he feels at the moment. He wonders, for a brief instant, how Kate is going to fare before he slips his key in, and opens the door.
He takes a few steps into the loft, and at first glance, everything is in order. He exhales, smiling weakly as his eyes take in his surroundings. The smile freezes when he sees them.
On his mantle, the large portrait of Meredith and Alexis is gone, thankfully. No memorial needed. That's good news.
In its place, however, are a couple of Emmy statuettes. He walks closer, blinking in disbelief as he inspects the awards. Apparently, a few of the Derek Storm books have been turned into made-for-TV movies. And apparently, those network movies were critically well-received. He stands at the mantle, starting at the statues when a third one, a couple of inches behind and between the two Emmys, catches his eye. He stops breathing for a few seconds, and starts to laugh.
The Oscar – an Academy Award – seems to laugh back at him. He reaches through and behind the Emmy awards and grabs the Oscar that he – or this version of him – won for writing the original screenplay for a detective thriller.
He is both excited and frightened – now once again, fully aware from the first trip that every change comes at a price. He begins to wonder what cost to his life has been associated with the awards adorning his mantle. He continues walking through the loft, which he notes is decorated differently than he noticed just a night before. It seems that his wife's tastes have changed dramatically.
He walks into his bedroom – all seems fine. He hears the shower running from the master bathroom.
Meredith.
Taking a deep breath, he walks toward the bathroom, but then his conscience grabs him.
She's his wife, yes – but in his heart, she isn't. Should he really be walking in on a naked woman, when his heart is somewhere else? Then again, she's just as likely – knowing Meredith – to walk out into the bedroom naked. And if that happens – well, knowing his wild ex-wife . . . er . . . current wife . . . who knows what could happen from there? Perhaps taking the initiative himself is the safer choice.
Deciding upon his course, he walks to the master bathroom, and opens the door that is cracked open. Still, it is with trepidation that he enters and calls out, modestly careful to keep his vision down toward the floor.
"I'm home," he simply says in a sing-song type of voice.
'Babe', or 'Honey' or anything like that just doesn't feel right – wouldn't be right, given where his heart truly lies. There is no need in leading Meredith on. It wouldn't be fair. Still, he has no idea how he is going to play this.
"Ah, there you are, Richard," a hauntingly familiar voice purrs from the shower stall. The voice pulls his eyes upward from the floor. There is far too much steam in the room, and the glass on the shower door is completely fogged up, so he cannot see inside the stall. He can make out a figure, sure, but that's about it.
But the voice . . .
"I was wondering when my handsome husband would return," she comments as she turns the knob to the water off.
"Towel please, my love," she commands, as his chest begins to tighten. He unknowingly falls in line, reaching for a large bath towel hanging close by, as instructed. He is about to toss it over the top of the door when the glass door opens, and a golden, wet arm reaches out.
Behind the arm, though? He loses his breath momentarily, staring at the very naked, drop-dead beautiful woman stepping out of the shower, her body wet, glistening and perfect.
"Kyra," he manages to say, as he grabs a hold of the vanity behind him to sturdy his suddenly unsteady legs.
"Strike three."