Kairos – Chapter 18

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, 12:14 p.m., At Richard Castle's Loft in New York City

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A very distracted Richard Castle is talking to himself in the living room of his loft home, pacing back and forth. Occasionally, he casts a nervous glance down the hallway toward his bedroom.

Where she is.

He has his mobile phone up to his ear. There is no phone call in progress, of course, but he has to keep up the appearance of being on a call in case she comes out suddenly. He's not ready to talk to her – not yet – and he definitely is not ready for more than talk.

Now, there are certainly some parts of his body that might violently disagree with that assessment, but for the most part, he has been able to successfully club those non-thinking components back into submission.

For now.

"Think, writer, think, dammit!" he tells himself. He needs a reasonable and believable excuse as to why he launched himself from her embrace – and from his . . . no . . . from their bathroom. And he needs to come up with a plan, pronto. This was totally unexpected. He is finding that sums up pretty much every timeline except for the original one he and Beckett left. That seems like eons ago now.

Worst case, he expected to see Meredith here in his home when he came in. Meredith he could have dealt with. He already had an idea in his head regarding how he would handle her.

Best case, he expected to see Alexis. That was the whole reason for going back again – to make sure Alexis was okay. That was the plan.

Reality?

Neither one of them are here.

And despite the absolutely stunning and very naked woman currently drying herself off in his bathroom, a woman that in pretty much any reality he would desire . . . his thoughts are of Alexis. And why she isn't here. And of Mike Monroe's words to him downstairs.

"She hasn't been here in . . . gosh, years, Mr. Castle. Are you expecting her?"

So evidently, he and Meredith divorced. Okay, got it. The last timeline notwithstanding, he understands that development, sad as it may be. That he and Meredith are happily married in any timeline is a stunner, for certain.

But for he and Meredith to divorce . . . and he allow Alexis to go with her mother? She hasn't been here for years, so that means somehow he – Richard Castle – has chosen his long-lost love in Kyra Blaine over his own pumpkin? No – that makes no sense whatsoever.

"No, no, no!" he shakes his head violently, cursing out the words. He cannot fathom any reality, any universe - any possible timeline where he would give up his daughter.

Not for a woman. Not for a job. Not for privilege. Not for anything or anyone.

Yet here he stands, in his plush loft home, golden statuettes spitting professional accolades from the mantle, the most beautiful woman – inside and outside - he's ever known unabashedly throwing herself at him . . . but there is no Alexis Castle in sight.

According to Mike, there hasn't been for years.

Years!

Clearly, the Richard Castle of this time period has a very different set of priorities, and a certain red-headed daughter isn't at the top of that list.

He shakes his head again, unable and unwilling to participate in this colorized version of a bad Twilight Zone episode. Yet participate he must – at least for the next couple of hours or so. He can't just bolt out of here again. First of all, where would he go? More, this may not be a timeline he is familiar with, it may not be one he asked for. But it is his reality now.

He considers – for a moment – the timeline he and Kate just left behind. A timeline without Alexis. A timeline where he is has turned into something of a recluse. A timeline where his ex-wife is dead, and he is a certified alcoholic who has shut himself off from pretty much everything and everyone.

So yeah, new surprises aside, this timeline is leaps and bounds better than what he just left, and that doesn't even take into account who Kate may or may not be with in this particular timeline.

Like it or not, this timeline is a better option. More, this is now home.

And then there is Kyra.

He finds himself feather-blown surprised that there is something still inside him for Kyra. Something he didn't realize was still there. He never gave her a second thought in the past few years, even after that case with her the night before her wedding. It only took days for him to put that behind him, because she was unavailable, unattainable, out of his reach. But the minute the universe put her back into his orbit, something sparked. Old feelings didn't necessarily return, but the kindling was certainly lit. He knows that he can't just toss this woman – and her feelings – around casually, while he gets his head, and act, together. Who is he kidding? Because it is Kyra, he couldn't if he wanted to.

It hits him quickly, as he puts a few numbers together, adding one and one and coming up with the right answer.

It's just after noon, and his 'wife' has obviously just recently awakened and has finished showering. In any reality, in any universe - what would Richard Castle do at this point for a wife, who has just awakened and has just stepped out of the shower?

He'd fix her breakfast.

"Actually I'd fix her breakfast after sex," he muses to himself, "but that's so not an option right now."

He's moving quickly now, his serious game face on, gathering eggs and bacon out of the fridge, and grabbing a loaf of bread from the breadbox. He's glad everything is still in the same place as he would expect them to be.

He pulls a dual, split-cut skillet out from the shelving unit below the island that will allow him to cook the bacon and eggs simultaneously, and turns the fire on. He's doing all of this with one hand, while the other continues to cradle his cell phone along his ear, allowing him to appear on the phone, his eyes still darting toward his bedroom.

The ruse works, as he hears her walking down the hallway, coming from the bedroom. He falls into his role, as the first pieces of bacon are slapped into the skillet.

"Okay, that sounds great," he mock speaks into the phone, feigning excitement – all for her benefit, of course. "And again, I'm sorry for not calling back right away. I'll get this taken care of," he concludes, pretending to hang up the call as he turns and faces her.

Despite his best effort and mental preparations, his breath leaves him.

She's wearing one of his white button-down business shirts, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. And nothing else. Her hair is still a bit damp from the shower, hanging down below her shoulders. She is a vision, and his mind unwillingly travels back years into the past, retrieving images of a Kyra from long ago.

She looks even more beautiful now than ever.

"Breakfast," she smiles, softly with a look of pure contentment on her face.

"You're just the best, Rick."

"I aim to please," he tells her, hoping that his natural act is consistent in this reality as well. "Sorry about bolting out like that back there -," he begins, but she cuts him off.

"Well, I would hope so," she tells him, as she pulls alongside him and slowly, seductively buries her face into his chest. The smell of her shampoo, the scent of the perfume she has oh so lightly sprayed . . . they assault him. He locks his knees just to keep standing as he speaks.

"It's just when I was touching you, a thought flashed before my eyes and I remembered that I forgot to call someone back about a new idea I'm pitching," he lies with a small gulp. He hopes it works.

"My naked body causes you to remember to run to the phone and pitch an idea you have?" she questions, eyebrows raised. "Since when did I have that effect on you?"

"Please," he offers her, giving her a playful swat on her rear. "You know what you do to me."

He is now realizing that breakfast is going to have to cook pretty damn quickly, or else he is in serious trouble. Running out of the bathroom to make a phone call, well . . . she might buy that.

Running out of the suddenly very hot kitchen? Bolting out of their home?

No, she won't buy that one.

Fortunately, fate gives him a break, of sorts.

"After we eat, I have to run," she 'reminds' him as she steps towards the large bank of cabinets in the kitchen. He intentionally plays ignorant – which isn't all that difficult to do, given his current circumstances.

"Gina and I are meeting with ABC at one-thirty," she continues. "Don't tell me you've forgotten. I need to lay the groundwork for tomorrow night's interview with Katie."

"That's right," he tells her, pretending to remember. "Remind me, what time do you think you will be back?"

"No later than five," she tells him, ready to pop the bread into the toaster.

"Not yet," he tells her. "Give the bacon a few more minutes."

"Remember, your flight leaves tomorrow morning, so you need to get into bed early, my love," she tells him.

He nods his head, mentally making a note to check the computer in his den. If he has a flight tomorrow, then he likely has a check-in reminder. He idly wonders where this flight is headed, but there's no need to ask Kyra any questions about his flight. He will get access to all of that information.

But an interview? With Katie?

"Has to be Couric," he thinks to himself. "That's a new one."

And that could be problematic.

He glances up at the wall clock in the kitchen. Just under six hours before he needs to meet with Kate Beckett. His wife will be gone for a few hours – prepping for a meeting with who he assumes to be Couric, or one of her representatives – until around five at the latest. He's going to have to find a reason to be out of the place by four. Until then, he will use the time Kyra is gone to do some searches online. He's got to find out where Alexis is, and what has happened. Then another thought hits him.

Meredith was pregnant.

They aren't married anymore, but he now wonders if she had the baby. And if so, where is that child? Is this timeline's Richard Castle really the type to walk away from not one, but two children? And not see them for years?

"Wait a second," he silently reminds himself. "Mike said Alexis hasn't been here in years. That doesn't mean that I haven't visited her. Wherever she is. Probably California. Yeah, that makes sense. Meredith went to California . . . in my timeline . . . but this is my timeline, too. Kyra's here. And she knows me. And evidently she's good friends with Gina. Gina. Damn, I wonder if I married her in this timeline, also . . . And why is Kyra meeting with her in the first place? What does Kyra do for me? Is she my –"

"Earth to Richard," he hears his wife call to him, and pointing to the bacon, which is starting to slightly burn.

"Oops," he gives her, flipping the multiple pieces and immediately reaches for the bowl that has four cracked eggs swimming. Giving the eggs one final beating, he pours the liquefied eggs into the other slot of the skillet. The sizzling sound – along with the aroma – mixes with that of the bacon, giving the breakfast that is cooking a new atmosphere of sights and smells.

"That must have been some phone call," Kyra tells him, as she walks to the refrigerator and pulls out a quart of orange juice.

"Sorry," he tells her. "Just a bit pre-occupied . . . and realizing I missed out on some quality personal time with a very beautiful woman," he gives her with a wink.

"Ah, there he is," she tells him, as she reaches up into the cabinet to grab two glasses, intentionally rubbing her ass up against him. "Glad to have you back, Mr. Castle."

"Never went anywhere, Mrs. Castle, trust me," he tells her, moving back to the stove to flip the bacon, trying to delicately put some distance between them. He pushes the bread down into the toaster and turns to face her. It stuns him how easily – how quickly – he has fallen into this bantering routine. It reminds him of exactly what he had in Kyra Blaine . . . what he had lost . . . and what, somehow, the heavens have given back to him.

He wonders if he should consider it a gift or a test.

"Should be no more than a minute now," he tells her, as he moves to grab some silverware to place on the bar top on the island behind them – eager to keep in motion. If she rubs up against him one more time . . . well . . .

The next ten or so minutes – thankfully – go off without a hitch. They eat in comfortable chatter. There's an occasional touch of the feet, initiated by Kyra, and talk of the meeting that she will be leaving for shortly. A little over half an hour later, she is out the door, a lingering kiss left on his lips. He closes the door, licking his lips, his mind now a not-so-finely tuned Ferrari that is continually misfiring, badly in need of a tune-up.

He's not re-thinking Kate. That's not it at all. He's just noticing differences. Massive ones. Like the solid hour of intimacy he's just shared with Kyra Castle. Not sexually, of course, but in pretty much every other way possible. It occurs to him that this type of intimacy is missing from his current relationship with Kate Beckett. Oh, they're playful, yes, and the sex is unbelievable. But just a simple breakfast has given him a glimpse at what is missing in their relationship. Somehow, there is a barrier, an emotional divide that he hasn't noticed before.

And it's taken just one damn hour with Kyra to point it out to him.

And then there is something else. Something he doesn't want to face. But has just spent the last hour slapping his, and so it is all but unavoidable now. It's something he has found himself saying to Kate all too often since that night she showed up at his door, dripping wet, apologies and confessions in hand.

He has often – during snuggling moments at night in bed, or across the table for a candlelit dinner – told Kate that they were just 'meant to be'. The reason they are together, despite all the obstacles they have faced and beaten – and there have been many – is that they were just meant to be together. It was fate. It was destiny.

"There is no universe, no reality where you and I don't belong together," he has often told her during the past eight to ten months, usually in those moments where she is wavering, where she is wondering about their future. Usually when he is trying to convince her to stay the course.

Now, he knows those words to be nothing more than romantic sentiment, at best. They have just seen two different alternatives of their universe, and they aren't together in either of them. In one, he is with Meredith. In another, he is with Kyra.

In one, he found happiness – and evidently – loyalty with his first wife.

In another, he found happiness – and very clearly – personal and professional togetherness with his first true love.

And Kate?

She's a mistress to a monster in one. And God only knows what this current timeline holds for her. But clearly it isn't him.

Whether it means he has to try harder, or she has to try harder, or they both need to drop their guard further – who knows. Certainly not him. It's not an answer he has at the moment. But he has questions. Lots of them.

For now, he puts them aside, as he takes on another task that has been weighing on him since his mad dash from the bathroom over an hour ago.

He starts walking through the loft – his home – frantic to find what he does not see. He glances about the living room. He sees the statuettes, the awards, and continues past them. They are nothing to him. He didn't win them. Someone else did.

"Come on, dammit!" he says aloud, disappointed with not finding it yet. Not finding them yet. They have to be here. He goes back into the bedroom, glancing around, and frowns. Nothing.

"Impossible," he mutters. "What kind of asshole am I in this universe?" he asks aloud, now heading into the bathroom. He's confident he won't find any here, but he still has to look. Seconds later, he is walking – briskly now – back toward the front, and makes a turn into his den. His workplace. Surely he will find it here. He can't be this bad of . . .

He lets a long breath flow mercifully from his lips as he sees one . . . then a second . . . then another. The picture of the redheaded youngster in a frame stares back at him. She can't be more than five years old. The second one seems about the same age. He glances over to his desk, where a third one sits. This one is older. She seems to be about seventeen, eighteen. Probably taken in the past year. And next to her, is a young boy. He seems to be about twelve or thirteen.

Her brother.

His son.

Both have their mother's red hair.

Next to this picture is another picture of the boy, this one younger, standing with his father. Standing with him. Both seem happy.

He blinks away a tear that blocks his vision, wondering just what kind of man he has become in this timeline to leave his children.

Pursing his lips, he sits down, and reaches for the mouse on the desktop. Opening a browser, his mind racing with questions now, he pulls up his first search.