Kairos – Chapter 17
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 Afternoon – April 28, 2013, 12:10 p.m., At Richard Castle's Loft in New York City
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Talk about the proverbial deer-in-the-headlights.
That describes Richard Castle perfectly right now. No, he wasn't sure what to expect when he arrived here to the loft, in this new, revised timeline. He should have prepared himself for anything. Okay, he thought he had prepared himself for anything. It is, however, the second time in as many days that he has found himself walking into 'his home' and finding an unfamiliar, unwelcome life waiting for him.
Only this time, it is very, very different.
It isn't Meredith, thank God. There are far too many hard memories of Meredith, memories he'd rather not think about, given how their athletic and dysfunctional relationship ended. His deep-fried sweet appetite aside, this woman has left him scarred. Deeply. It's impacted how he conducted himself for years. It's not an excuse. It's not something he's proud of. But it is reality.
However, the 'reality' staring back at him right now?
His mind has – effectively – shut down for a few seconds. He's expected to see one person, and is standing in front of another. And the two could not be more different.
Yes, Meredith is the mother of his daughter. She was fun for a time, and damn, was she good in bed or what! Their sexual exploits are the things of legend. More than one hotel bedroom has been left in tatters by their . . . unusual and generally carefree activities.
But Meredith was also good in bed with others . . . and that, during their marriage.
Kyra?
There is no other way to say it; Kyra is the one who got away. The one he allowed to get away. The one his pride reared its ugly head towards and all but cast away. The one he should have pursued. Sure, he can blame her parents – who clearly wanted her to have nothing to do with him. And, in fact, early on he did blame her parents. After all, it's easier than blaming oneself.
In reality, all it would have taken to keep Kyra was one airplane ticket.
One. Stupid. Airplane. Ticket.
He won't admit it to himself – much less to Kate – but during their little four-year dance around, had Kyra resurfaced and been available . . . who knows what might have happened? Well, let's just say that Kate's quixotic quest for justice, vengeance, whatever . . . it would have been a solo journey, sans Richard Castle. No, it's not that he isn't happy with Kate, because he is deliriously so. It's not that he doesn't love Kate to death, because he clearly does.
But Kyra? Here? Now?
Naked?
And she is obviously his wife? She called him 'husband'. A term that he would have – for a long, long time, been overjoyed to hear from her.
In his current frozen state, he finds himself paralyzed as the beautiful woman from his past – the one he allowed to walk away – takes a couple of sexy, cinema-quality steps to him, placing her small hands on his chest. She lifts herself up on her tip toes – still naked while holding the towel on her arm – and slips a soft kiss on his lips. He feels her tongue lick his lower lip, and without thinking he parts his lips, giving her access. Her tongue slowly floats beyond his lips and suddenly the scent of her bath soap rushes into his nostrils, overtaking him.
She is intoxicating.
His eyes instinctively close – against his better judgement – as he listens to her moan softly before she breaks away.
"It's still like kissing you for the first time, Rick," she tells him, almost out of breath.
"Damn," he thinks to himself, as he quickly opens his eyes, blinking twice, as if not believing who is standing in front of him.
"Kyra," he whispers softly.
"Baby," she replies softly, and this time she reaches up and pulls him down to her level, into another kiss. This one is more passionate, deeper, longer, and he finds his arms acting on their own, rising up to hold her shoulders first, and then slowly dropping down to the side of her breasts.
Perhaps it is that motion, and just the slight feeling of what is there, just inches from his fingers, that jolts him back to reality. His arms quickly drop, and he pulls away from his long-lost and departed love. His action has the anticipated response. Her eyes open in surprise, wondering what's wrong. He sees it immediately and his quick mind saves him.
"Wow," he exclaims, and it's an honest and true response. "I just remembered . . . hold that thought," he concludes as he dashes out of the expansive bathroom, trying to get his mind back in working order, and simultaneously searching for a reason to explain his sudden departure.
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Sunday Afternoon – April 28, 2013, 12:27 p.m., At Kate Beckett's High Rise Apartment
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Kate Beckett walks into the lobby of her apartment complex, and with her first step inside the lobby, it hits her that this is the second time she has come to the complex, and it is the second time she has come here without a key.
Of course she doesn't have a key. She's never really lived here. A version of Kate has lived here, but her. When she arrived last time – just a day or two ago, she is losing track of time now, ironically – she didn't have a key and Stanley had to take her up to the thirty-seventh floor. And if memory serves, neither Stanley nor his companion were awfully glad to see her, and it wasn't due to either of them being unfriendly.
It was her.
With a slight hesitation, she walks through the lobby toward the security desk. What a difference a timeline makes. The friendly greeting both enlightens and frightens the hell out of her.
"Ah, Mrs. District Attorney," Stanley greets her. Kate's heart all but stops.
His tone is both casual and friendly – clearly an improvement from the last time. That's the good news. However, she hasn't missed the fact that he neglected to include the word 'assistant'. Evidently in this timeline her upward mobility is even more accelerated.
But it's the word that was said that has caused her current cardiac predicament.
"Mrs."
Yeah, that word.
"Oh shit," she thinks to herself, knowing this can't be good. Castle was married in the other timeline, and probably still is in this one. Now she is married, too.
They just can't seem to catch a break.
"Hi Stanley," she offers weakly, but her voice friendly.
"I didn't see you leave," he tells her, glancing at his watch.
"I have to keep you on your toes," she smiles to the guard, sensing a much looser and more casual relationship is in play in this timeline.
"I forgot my key again," she tells him with a roll of the eyes. "Would you mind –"
"That's no problem," he tells her. "Your husband isn't here, as you know. Busy on Capitol Hill these days, what with the threat of a government shutdown. If you don't have your key, let me make you another one real quick."
"Your husband," Kate thinks to herself, now redoubling her original fears and replacing them with new ones. She's married, married to a politician evidently, and her first thought – fear, really – is that it is Bracken. As if the idea of being the man's mistress wasn't distasteful enough, now she has to consider the horror of being married to the man.
"Here you go," Stanley tells her. "39E as requested."
"Thank you, Stanley," she offers, noting the new floor. "I owe you one." She also doesn't miss the fact that just a day or two ago in a different timeline, taking the time to make her an extra key wasn't such an easy task.
"Good luck this week with the case," he tells her. "We're rooting for you. It's always good to see a dirty cop get taken down."
That one raises the hairs on her neck, as any discussion regarding dirty cops is just a little too close for comfort for Kate's liking. She wants – so badly – to ask what he is talking about, but of course that's not an option. She mentally makes a note to herself to do a quick internet search when she gets in her apartment to see what this is about.
"Thank you again, Stanley," Kate tells him again, entering the elevator.
"I'm keeping count, there," he chuckles to her. "Just in case I ever need a free pass."
He laughs, gives her a small salute as the elevator doors close, giving Kate momentary privacy. Her mind is a NASCAR race on a Saturday afternoon – running loud, fast and furious – as the elevator begins its long trek upward. She desperately wants to text Castle, but that can wait until she gets to her apartment, since Stanley has assured her that there is no one there. Whoever she is married to is busy back in Washington, D.C., so she will have some time to herself, this time, to get her thoughts together.
She watches the numbers flash by, mentally preparing herself to step off on the thirty-seventh floor when she remembers that Stanley has told her she is on floor thirty-nine.
"More changes," she thinks to herself as she flies past floors thirty-seven and thirty-eight, coming to rest finally on the floor just below the penthouse level. She disembarks from the elevator and turns left and right, getting her bearings before walking toward the right, stopping in front of 39E, the last door on the left. Actually, the last door period, and she can tell before she opens the door that the loft she is getting ready to enter wraps around the side of the building.
Kate enters, and closes the door behind her quickly. She turns, her back falling back against the closed door, and allows her eyes to scan the massive room. As far as she can see are floor-to-ceiling windows that – from this vantage point – wrap around the building to the right. There, she notes, is also a spiral staircase, leading up to the top floor. She shakes the Alice-in-Wonderland thoughts away, glancing now throughout an apartment home that takes up the top two floors – at least on this end of the building.
Evidently, she lives well in this timeline also. Even more so.
She gazes at the art work that adorns the walls and small tables. It's of the expensive, and old-world variety. She walks toward the fireplace – a massive, stone beast that is clearly the focal point for the large living room – and her eyes are immediately drawn to the picture in a frame at the edge of the mantle.
It is a picture of Kate Beckett and William Bracken. Her face is leaning into his, the classic husband and wife casual picture. It's not a formal portrait, but most likely a picture taken by a friend. The backdrop is clearly Hawaii as she sees the evidence of luau paraphernalia behind them as they stand on the beach.
Her heart drops, as the very thought of the man she hates - she loathes above all others - being the man she is married to. The man she is intimate with. She finds tears of frustration forming in her eyes as her mind begs to understand the calamity that has to have occurred to put her in this man's bed, in his heart, with dual rings on their fingers. The noise in her head grows louder, until she suddenly realizes that it isn't her inner monologue or thoughts pouring out. There's a noise inside.
She's not alone in here!
"I thought I heard you come in, Miss Kate."
She turns to see an older woman – probably in her late fifties – come around the corner. She has something in her hands – a rag of some sort, Kate thinks – and it's clear that this is a cleaning woman who has free reign of the house.
Okay, so this makes sense. If she can afford this place . . . if they can afford this place, then having someone here to clean the place isn't out of the question. And Stanley, now that she thinks about it, didn't say no one was up here. He simply said that her husband wasn't here.
But there is something else that has now caught her attention.
The higher pitched voice startles her, as does the young girl – maybe five years old – that walks around the corner and sees her. The young girl wears a soft, yellow dress with pleats. She looks as delicate as a solitary lily in a garden stretching skyward. The girl's eyes grow large, as if she is surprised to see Kate here. She rushes forward, toward Kate, her arms lifted upward as she runs.
"Mommy! Mommy!" she cries and buries herself into Kate's waist. Without thinking and without hesitation, Kate's hands instinctively surround the beautiful young girl. The tears of frustration that were forming in her eyes now spill forward, brought on not by frustration but the unimaginable joy of a woman who has secretly longed – for years – to hear that word spoken to her, but had long ago given up on hearing it any time soon.
Mommy.
Kate's arms wrap around the little girl, and the words escape her mouth before she even realizes she is thinking them.
"Hey there, precious," she greets her daughter, for the first time, and unknowingly tightening her grip before catching herself.
"Madison, give your mother a chance to catch her breath, love," the older woman tells the young girl, and now Kate is rethinking her previous assumption.
"More like a nanny than housekeeper," she thinks to herself, now watching the young girl's interaction with the older woman. The affection between the two is clear. Kate gazes down at the young girl in her arms, and another tear falls. There is no doubt - absolutely none – that she is looking down at her own daughter. She is looking at herself, three decades ago.
The young girl has her eyes. She has her hair, locks and all. She has her gangly but dainty look. And her smile dazzles her like no other.
"Mommy, you're crying," little Madison notices, and within seconds, duplicate tears have formed in the young girls eyes.
"Are you sad, Mommy?" Madison asks. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing baby girl," Kate replies, wiping a tear away. "Mommy . . ."
She chokes on the word.
"Mommy is just so happy to see you," Kate tells her, and the beautiful smile that plants itself across little Madison's face is just too much for her. She holds her closer, tighter. She knows it's not real. But dammit, it is real! She's here. With her daughter. For now, her monster of a husband is far, far out of mind.
"Miss Cassandra, I thought you said Mommy was gone today," Madison asks, a bit of confusion leaking through.
"I'm surprised to see you, Miss Kate," Cassandra replies, both to Madison and to Kate. "I thought you had work to do this morning in the office."
"It's Sunday," Kate offers up. It's just a white lie, nothing serious, she tells herself. "I decided I wanted to spend some time with my favorite little girl."
"Yaay!" Madison screams, and pulls out of her mother's embrace. "The park, Mommy? Can we go to the park?" she asks, already running to her room to change clothes.
"The park it is," Kate agrees, smiling, feeling happier than she has in . . . in a long time. Just that thought alone punches her in the gut, guilt seeping though.
"I was going to take her to the museum, but we both know she'd rather be at the park," Cassandra smiles.
"That we do," Kate agrees, nodding her head. "Let me run and freshen up, and we will both be out of your hair for the afternoon," Kate tells the woman, continuing to smile.
"Are you sure, Miss Kate?" Cassandra asks. "I don't mind accompanying the two of you to –"
"Consider it an afternoon off, Cassandra," Kate tells her, and the reply on the older woman's face tells her that this is a huge aberration. "You go on, help Madison while I get ready."
Kate excuses herself, and by sheer luck alone correctly walks to the left where she suspects her master bedroom would be.
Their master bedroom.
She enters the room, closing the door halfway, and turns toward the interior of the room, taking in the sights quickly with detective observation skills honed over a decade and more. She notes the surprising number of photos of herself and William Bracken, from various locales. She notes the pictures of young Madison, both alone and with her parents. Quite a few are just Madison and Kate, and quite a few of Madison and her father.
"God," Kate exclaims, sitting on the bed, her head in her hands. Her thoughts are of Richard Castle. Her thoughts are of Kevin Ryan and Javier Esposito.
And her thoughts are of a small little flower getting ready on the other side of the loft, with a growing realization that she just might not be able to leave this little girl – perfect timeline or not.
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A/N: Some may not appreciate Castle's response to Kyra kissing him, but I like to think it is some type of poetic justice. A lot of us – myself included – took exception with Kate Beckett responding to that kiss from Eric Vaughn that – in this AU take – would have occurred this week, since last week she was standing on the bomb during "Still". Some have argued that Kate should not have kissed him back, given her relationship with Castle. Many of us thought it was bad writing on the part of the canon writers. Count me in that camp.
However . . . turn the tables, put Castle in that position. Put Castle in that position with Kyra Blaine. How would he have reacted, if Kyra were not married, or not even engaged to be married. I thought throwing that notion into play here would be fun, and a little though-provoking. I'm not saying that it would be right for Castle to respond in this fashion . . . just saying that I could see it happening.