Kairos – Chapter 21

.

DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

Monday Morning – April 29, 2013, 2:39 a.m., Inside the Den at Richard Castle's Loft

.

Richard Castle sits at his desk – one of the few familiar things in this timeline – rubbing now very bleary and watering eyes, squinting at the large twenty-six inch monitor that sits atop his desk. He glances up in the corner of the screen, noting the time. It's well past two in the morning. His eyes are giving in, but his mind remains alert, focused entirely on what he has been reading for the past four to five hours.

It had been a nice dinner with Kyra. He has to admit to himself, it was far nicer than he could have imagined. Particularly given the fact that he is completely on his guard, fighting mightily to do nothing to encourage the woman.

The woman.

He finds himself feeling oh so guilty at considering Kyra – his wife of this timeline – as nothing more than 'the woman.' He finds himself – dammit – despite his best efforts, being drawn to her. She has been nothing short of loving, attentive and supportive . . . three qualities that – outside of his daughter – have been in short supply in his life - in any timeline.

He's been sitting here since roughly ten o'clock the evening before, doing multiple searches on the internet to find out more about himself – and his wife – in this timeline. He has been watching a multitude of interviews of himself, with multiple networks, multiple media outlets. There have been articles read and videos watched.

He can't say that he is all too pleased with what he is learning about himself.

This version of Richard Castle is . . . well, he's almost arrogant. He certainly does not lack self-confidence, and he speaks flowingly of himself very easily. His old jokes – in his timeline – about being ruggedly handsome aside, that Richard Castle didn't take himself too seriously. This Richard Castle, however, does indeed believe his press clippings.

Sure, in his own timeline, he's never been one to really doubt himself, at least not professionally. Dozens of published works will do that. There is a public role that he has learned to play. But it is only a role. It isn't him. He's a good writer, yeah. He knows this.

Only this version of himself really, really knows this. And embraces it. Revels in it. In watching the interviews, he has realized that this guy here – this Richard Castle – he isn't playing a role. This is who the man really is.

He doesn't want to be this man.

He's almost like a professional athlete in his mannerisms, in how he carries himself in public.

The basketball player who drains the three pointer, and then points toward the crowd, basking in and encouraging their praise? That's him.

The soccer star who heads the winning goal into the net, then sprints in jubilation to the nearest corner of the field, sliding on his knees, arms raised victorious as he encourages the praises of the fans? Yeah, that's him.

No, he doesn't like this version or Richard Castle, and he has found himself wondering how many people – secretly or openly – feel the same way. He has found himself wondering how in the world his wife puts up with him.

He is intent on changing this.

The Richard Castle that the public will see tomorrow night . . . make that later tonight, since it is already in the wee hours of Monday morning . . . the Richard Castle the public sees tonight will be a different man. He is adamant about recreating himself. He's going to do this for himself. For his daughter. And oddly enough, for the woman he knows is sleeping in the other room.

This thought frightens him terribly, as he has come to realize that he is considering staying in this timeline.

Whereas his initial thoughts – initially – had been of visiting Kronologix and once again resetting things back to normal . . . well, now he is of a different mindset.

Then again . . . what is normal anymore?

He suspects that Kate is also leaning in that direction. Well, if this is the life that the universe has chosen for him . . . for them . . . well, he has to make the most of it, doesn't he?

He is a dad, here, just as he was in his timeline. He's a dad here, but not a good one. That's a tough cross to carry for the man staring at the screen. There is a young girl out there – hell, she's eighteen years old now. Not much of a girl. She's a young woman. A young woman who grew up without a father. Unacceptable!

And worse – there is a young boy – a boy like he was himself was – raised only by a working woman? Growing up without Richard Castle in his life, for the most part? Again, unacceptable. Especially for a man who knows – firsthand – what growing up without a father, with a single mom desperately trying to hold things together. Yeah, Richard Castle knows that life, and he is absolutely distraught as he wonders how he – how this version of Richard Castle – could willingly place another young boy into a similar fate.

But then he remembers the articles he has been reading.

Meredith remarried. A director, of course. Someone who could help her with her career. He can't begrudge her that. He wonders just how helpful and supportive Richard Castle was to Meredith in this timeline. Regardless, she has remarried. And by the looks of it, this marriage has stuck. For over ten years now. But this Richard Castle didn't know that when he left his children . . . when he let them leave. Meredith wasn't remarried. He had the opportunity to have them, and willingly decided against it. Fortunately, for both children, Meredith's new husband had a different set of priorities.

So, in reality, Alexis and Peter didn't grow up fatherless. There was a father in the picture. It just wasn't him. The sheer possibility that Alexis has grown up calling another man 'Daddy' . . .

Again, completely unacceptable, and he finds himself grunting in frustration yet again. It's been a common reaction since he plopped down in the chair here.

So yeah, there is a re-set that is going to happen tonight, all right. A re-set of one Richard Castle. Because, over the course of the evening and these wee hours, he has begun to think less about 'my timeline' and 'our timeline' and 'the old timeline' or 'this new timeline.'

It's just his reality now. It is what it is, and he is beginning to accept that this is life now. And if this is his life, well, dammit, he's going to make it one he can feel comfortable living in.

He realizes he is repeating himself, his thoughts are jumbled together, in a non-ending circular cycle. Suddenly, a pair of soft arms are around his neck, and a pair of even softer lips brush against his cheek. He feels – and smells – her sweetness upon him.

"Rick," his wife whispers softly. "Come to bed. You need to sleep. You've got an early morning. And I can't sleep knowing you aren't in bed with me. You know this, baby."

He finds himself smiling, even against his best efforts. It turns out he was wrong about Kyra. She was no home-wrecker. She was divorced, moving on with her life, when he – while still married to Meredith – made overtures toward his old flame. Overtures which Kyra quickly – and quietly – rebuffed. She did it in private, without embarrassing him. From the articles, though, taken from interviews after the couple married, it seems that he chased and chased and chased until he finally caught her . . . a little over a year after he and Meredith divorced.

It sounds so painfully familiar to him. It appears no matter the timeline, he always seems to chase what doesn't desire him.

Only this time, he seems to have caught his treasure at the end of the rainbow, and it's been a happily-ever-after ending.

In the end, it took a mutually-initiated divorce – one that Meredith eagerly sought as much as Castle – to cause Kyra to give even modest consideration to a relationship with Castle. But still, it took over a year after that divorce for her to even agree to their first date.

"Another woman I chased and chased," he had told himself upon learning about their history together.

Nevertheless, in so many ways, landing Kyra was good for Castle. He has settled down, and his writing has actually expanded in diversity. In other ways, however, it has only proven to reinforce a mantra within this timeline's author that he can have whoever he wants, whatever he wants, whenever he wants.

The woman of his dreams, Emmys, Oscars, fame and fortune.

And through it all, there is no evidence that he has even looked back at the notion of losing his children. One interview, in particular, brought tears to his eyes.

"Sure I miss my children," he had told an interviewer during a sit-down only three years ago. "But it's not like I never see them. Thank God for airplanes. And Amazon," he had concluded, chuckling. It was a cavalier, almost callous response.

That's the Richard Castle of this timeline.

Yeah, he hates this man who he has become. The man who bears his name, but little else that he would want to keep for himself. Once again, he is now questioning his firm, previously-unshakeable belief that we are all who we are, no matter the circumstances. And that we are destined to find that one person. Now, he realizes that circumstances – and decisions – have created a Richard Castle he would never have recognized. And as the last two timeline visits have clearly taught, nothing is guaranteed. In fact, he's now been present in three timelines in his life, and in two of them, Kate is with Bracken.

And he is with Kyra.

So what in the hell is that supposed to tell him . . .

And speaking of Kyra . . . the one shining light in all of this, however, appears to be Kyra Castle.

Thankfully, it appears that he has given up his playful, adulterous ways for this woman. And it appears, from a few other articles, that it is Kyra, not Castle himself, who ensures that the man stays somewhat close with his children.

"I'm so sorry," he tells the woman who has draped her arms around him, and snuggles into his neck.

"For what?" she asks inquisitively. She'd be an idiot not to see something different in her husband over the past day. Less than a day. Whatever. He's different somehow, and this has not been lost on her. He's different . . . in a very good way. Somehow he appears more . . . humble. More human. And, as he found out at dinner, she knows her husband very, very well.

She had asked him about his limp.

Yes, his hip is hurting, it's just a dull ache. But apparently it has caused a bit of a limp. She noticed it. She brought it up at dinner.

Funny that Kate has not.

Of course, he lied it off, telling her he has no idea why it is hurting. He told her that it began hurting last night, and he just didn't want to worry her. No way is he going to start talking about time travel and wild science fiction theories.

He could tell, even then, that she wasn't buying it.

"I'm sorry that I haven't been the best husband for you," he tells her, watching her expressive eyes grow in disbelief.

"I'm sorry that I haven't been the best dad for Alexis, for Peter," he continues, wondering if he has said too much, gone too far, as Kyra pulls away, staring intently at him. She gazes at his eyes, his cheeks, his shoulders, as if seeing him for the first time.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice low.

"I am making sure that this is really you," she tells him, and he can tell she isn't joking. There is no humor, no joking in her voice.

"It's like I am talking to a stranger," she continues, placing a hand on his face, his cheek, rubbing it softly. He can't help it –he closes his eyes into her touch. She slides her face towards his, placing a soft kiss on his lips, biting his lower lip lightly in the process.

"You kiss like my husband," she smiles demurely. "You taste like my husband." She shakes her head, and the smile leaves.

"But you're different somehow," she continues. "I can't put my finger on it. What happened today, Rick? Ever since you came home – when surprised me in the shower . . . you're different."

He chuckles to himself, shaking his head.

"Well, I can't tell you the truth. I can't tell you that I'm a time traveler who has usurped your husband's position, taken his place in your life," he thinks to himself, staring at the beautiful woman in front of him, who he only now recognizes is wearing only a long t-shirt, which barely drops to her thighs.

"Can't we just say that maybe I am finally growing up, I guess?" he asks. "Can't a man grow up? Even at my age? Especially at my age?"

She stares at him for a few more seconds, hand still on his cheek, then glances down at the monitor. She sees the CNN article written about him last year that he is reading. Professionally, it is a wonderful article praising his talents.

Personally, it's not the most flattering piece. She glances at him, searching his eyes, and nods her head.

"Maybe," she thinks to herself, trying to keep her hopes in check.

"I love you," she tells him. "So much."

He gazes into her eyes, and he fights the emotions that have broken out in war inside him. Her eyes always spoke to him. They sparkled, they glistened, they raged, they laughed. And they cried. And tonight, they are crying. He sees, in her eyes, hope. Hope that she doesn't want to feel, but cannot help but feel.

Hope that – evidently – he has taken away from her through the years.

He knows he shouldn't say those words – he doesn't feel them . . . does he? But this is his new timeline. No – scratch that. This may not be his timeline. Not yet.

But it is hers.

This is her timeline . . . the only one she knows.

"I love you, too Kyra," he tells her, knowing she deserves this, knowing that as long as he is here, as long has he remains here – and that might be a long, long, time – she deserves this.

And maybe – just maybe – he does also.

She kisses his cheek, and starts to walk away.

"Please, don't be too long," she tells him. "You know I won't sleep."

"Ten minutes," he tells her. "I promise, no longer than that."

She smiles, and leaves the room, shutting the door softly. He shakes his head – his mind a rush of contradictions now. Kate, Kyra, Alexis . . . they swim noiselessly inside his mind, and the silence is deafening, forcing him to shake all three out of his thoughts.

He takes a deep breath, sighing. His face is peaceful . . . and then he frowns.

Javier.

Kevin.

Neither are here. Neither are alive. And this – this – is definitely his fault. They didn't deserve this either. Nor do their widows.

Suddenly, as pangs of regret assault him yet again, he has another realization. And this one hurts.

He knows that Kate Beckett isn't stupid. If he realized the possibilities of changing the past, then Kate had to see it also. Because she's not stupid. She had to also realize that if they did all of this – ensuring that her mother stayed alive – the possibility existed that she wouldn't become a cop. The possibility existed that they wouldn't have met. The possibility existed that they would come back to realities where they were – happily – with other people.

Ripples. He knew it. But so did she. Hell, Kevin had talked to them about ripples, about consequences. Yet he pushed forward.

But, so did she.

He decided it was worth it. For her.

But so did she.

Yeah, she went forward with this too.

He did this because he just wanted her to be happy. That's been his focus for the past year. And the best gift he could ever give her would be to give her back her mother. That's always been what is most important to Kate. So he jumped at this chance.

"But I could have given her something more . . . something better . . . someone better," he tells himself now.

Too late, he now realizes from her reactions and their discussion last night in the Village, that the one thing he could have given her, the absolute best gift that he could have given her was a child. A child of their own. At least the discussion of a child. He knows this now. It's so damn painfully obvious. And it's so damn painfully too late.

It seems her mindset, her paradigm was contagious after all. Instead of focusing on their future – a family they could have – he had become Kate, focused only her past, and the family she had lost.

But another nagging thought is on his mind now, also. It's a thought that had been swimming just below the surface, unseen by him to this point. He should have seen it – it's so obvious. Like the dorsal fin that breaks the surface, warning of danger below. Again, another warning he simply ignored.

He's thinking of one Dr. Sandra Windholm, and the whole concept of Kronologix. Until tonight . . . make that this morning, rather, he had considered the doctor visiting him at his book signing to be nothing more than she said . . . a fan wanting to meet an author. All of this other stuff – a coincidence.

This morning, however, he has begun to suspect . . . and his suspicions have morphed into firm realizations, that the doctor's visit was far from innocent. Far from benign. His internet search of Kronologix turned up . . .

Zero.

Nada.

Zilch.

Nothing. Not one damn article. Not a peep. It's like the company doesn't even exist. But it does exist. He's been there. He arrived back to the company facility when he and Kate Beckett returned to this timeline. He's met the doctor. He's seen the staff. He's participated in – experienced their technology. But according to the vast searches he has conducted – there is no Kronologix. The place doesn't exist. Oh, Dr. Windholm exists. And yes, she is a decorated and respected quantum physicist. It's just that there is no mention of Kronologix.

He is now questioning why she came . . . why she sought him out. And why she allowed him to go back in time. Why she allowed he and Kate to do this. Why she allowed this even after telling them that no one could make a trip unaccompanied. Why she allowed this without fulling vetting out their backgrounds, to ensure that she wasn't dealing with two people who would do . . . who would do exactly what they did.

Change a timeline. Intentionally.

His mind has been racing tonight, between the discouraging news he has discovered about himself, and the even more frightening discoveries he has made about the mythical phantom company run by Dr. Windholm. He is wondering if there ever were other investors. He is wondering if there ever was a pending IPO. Stanley would have fleshed this out, wouldn't he? Then again, if it is a private company, there really is nothing to declare publicly.

Then again, if it is a private company, it still has to incorporate somewhere. There has to be some record of its existence.

"Why, Dr. Windholm?" he asks himself yet again this morning. "Why did you allow this? Why did you do this? What am I not seeing?"

Glancing at the time in the upper corner, he grunts again, and closes the monitor down, throwing the room into darkness. He's learned enough, he's learned far too much. And he has nothing but more questions.

For now, he just needs to recharge, relax, re-set . . .

He stands, stretching tired muscles, and is startled by the jolt of pain in his hip.

"Dammit," he thinks to himself, "another cost I didn't consider."

He walks – sadly, tiredly, to his bedroom, and the woman waiting for him there.