Close Encounters 7
He would have homework, Dr King explained. There were five worksheets - one for after each session - and they would talk about them together at the next appointment. But first he wanted Castle to write down his goals for their time together.
"Goals." Castle stared at the blank sheet of paper.
"We already did this together - the three of us. You both indicated your marriage-"
"Right. Yes. That's my goal."
"What else, Rick?"
He picked up the pen and wrote a number one. Put a period after it. And then his hand ran away with him and wrote the thing that woke him screaming at night.
Be good for Kate.
"Good?" Dr King queried, his single word making it sound like Castle had somehow been vague with his first goal.
"Good. For her. Good enough. Not get her shot by my own damn father."
Dr King merely nodded. He already knew, of course; they'd gone over this on the phone when Castle had called to make them an appointment for the first interview.
"Number two?"
Castle scratched the two onto the page and stared at the pure white space after it. "Two. I don't know. It's hard to see the first one actually happening."
Dr King was writing this down. Grrreat. Castle rubbed a hand down his face and sighed.
"Rick. You mentioned that having a favorite color didn't matter to you. But you are worried it matters to Kate. Why?"
He frowned. "She brought it up in therapy," he said, a little bit of indignation coloring his voice. "Don't you think it matters?"
"I think it matters to you what she thinks, yes. What she thinks about you. Why does her mentioning the favorite color question seem so telling?"
"Because my life - my job - I think my job bothers her," he admitted. "I know it does. I'm not - my morals are too grey for her. There's not always a clear-cut bad guy. I kill people. She's seen me kill people - point blank."
"You kill people. For your job or. . .?"
King already knew this. He was a CIA therapist - he'd been Castle's CIA therapist. What exactly did that question mean?
King's gaze was resolute. "Because, Rick, you started to say that it was your life. And then you stopped and said your job. Your job bothers her."
"Ah," he murmured, rubbed his fingers at his eyebrow. "Yes. My - it was my life. Now. It's my job."
"Do you feel that distinction is important?"
He lifted his head, swallowed. "Yes." To be good enough. "Yes. I used to be - the machine. Now I'm more. Because of Kate."
"Do you feel that Kate has seen that distinction in you? That she's seen you make that switch? Chosen a favorite color, as it were."
Oh.
He found himself gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that he could feel the staples in the fabric digging into his fingers. Castle forced himself to relax and took a longer breath in, let it out again. King had taught him that trick about seven years ago.
"I'm a forty-two year old man who has been in the spy business for far too long," Castle said finally. "I wanted out. The way was blocked. But I want to believe that we can change. That we have the capacity to be better, to be more than this."
"Who is we? The CIA? Or yourself and Kate?"
His shoulders slumped and he met Dr King's gaze. "Yes. Yes, all of us."
"Then go home and tell Kate your favorite color."
His heart jumped in his throat. "What if I don't have one?"
"Rick," Dr King said slowly, sitting forward. "You have the capacity; you can be more than this."
He closed his eyes, tried to hold on to the therapist's sense of certainty.
"Rick. The only reason Kate brought it up was because I asked her to tell me about you. Not once did she say you killed people. Don't mistake her, don't sell her short. Believe that she has the capacity as well."
Beckett had finally unpacked and washed the last of the dishes and put them away in the cabinets when the front door opened and she heard Castle come inside. She paused at the counter and took a breath, pressed her lips together, and then she fisted her hands and went for him.
He looked shell-shocked. Like he hadn't even had a chance to recover despite the long subway ride home.
She waited in the threshold of the dining room, watching him until he turned his head towards her and blinked.
She was ashamed to realize that she didn't know what he needed from her. Yesterday she'd crawled into bed alone to gather herself again, and then she'd gone looking for him. But Castle didn't deal like she did; Castle was a soldier and a spy trained to keep it together. Still, he was also Rick. And she had no idea what he needed.
She opened her mouth to ask, but he was already reaching out and grabbing her, tugging her against him. She let out a breath and clutched the back of his shirt with both hands, hugged him harder as his arms banded around her. She could feel him swallowing convulsively, feel his shallow breaths.
It wasn't about her; it was about him.
She flattened her palm and skated her hand up his back to the nape of his neck, curled her fingers there. He shivered and she turned her head into his cheek, glad she'd worn heels and could reach him. She felt his breath skitter out and she stroked his soft hair, found herself murmuring to him, nonsense, shushing him and he wasn't even talking.
His hand clutched at her bicep and she lifted her her cheek from his, searched his eyes.
Still ripped open. Everything laid bare. She'd never see him with his heart in his eyes like this before. She'd seen him so furious and frustrated and hurting for her that he'd cried, but this wasn't grief over her. This was the raw desperation of what do I do?. She knew that feeling, understood it.
"It's gonna be okay," she said. She ran her fingers through the hair flopping over his forehead. "Your hair's getting long."
He swallowed and raised his eyes to look at his bangs. "Yeah," he rasped, cleared his throat to try again. "Getting annoying. Gotta cut it soon."
"Oh, don't do that," she murmured, her whole body trembling like it could open wide and take him in. "I like it. Flippy. The way it curls at your ears."
It wasn't what she'd wanted to say to him; it wasn't even close. But it was all she could make come out of her mouth. She feathered her fingers in his bangs and cupped the side of his face, tried to keep it together for him.
"I'll figure it out," he said suddenly, his voice a growl. "I will. I promise."
She nodded, lips pressed together, but she wasn't sure what. Didn't matter. She knew he would. She knew it.
Kate lifted her mouth to his and kissed him softly, so carefully, breathing lightly against him and waiting, waiting.
And then he cradled her head in his hands and dived in.
She wrapped around him and knew he'd be okay.
"Let's get out of here," he said. He was tired of the heaviness and he didn't want to associate that feeling with their home. Not any longer.
He didn't know his favorite color.
"Where we going?" she asked. She was already stepping over to the entry table and grabbing her phone and keys. She hesitated at the dark screen of her iphone and her fingers seemed unable to complete their task.
But he must have imagined it, because she snagged it and stuffed her keys into her pocket and then cradled her phone to her chest and turned back to him.
"Sasha, puppy. Come here," she called. He heard the far off rattle of Sasha's dog tags and then her nails clicking on hardwood. He lifted his head and there she was, loping down the stairs to meet them.
"Hey, Wolf," he greeted her. She nudged into his hand and he scratched between her ears. "Been upstairs sleeping?"
"She's been in the extra bedroom. I think it's cooler in there. I dragged her dog bed in."
"She uses it?"
Kate nodded, studied him. "Where we going, Castle?"
He sighed and lifted from the dog. "I don't know where. Just someplace different."
She studied him, and he found it difficult to think at all, let alone recall some suitable place where they could hang out and forget for a while.
"How about my dad's?" she said. "Bring Sasha with us."
He lifted a smile to her, his chest easing. "Yeah. That'd be good."
"I don't even know if he's there. . ."
"Friday is the reception," he reminded her, though he doubted she needed it. She'd been calling Jim back and forth the last few days, finalizing the number of guests and editing the menu.
"He's been out fishing this weekend, and I'm not sure when he gets back," she answered. "Still, I have a key."
Why was it so much easier to breathe? But he nodded at her and reached for her hand; she came at his side and bumped hips with him like she was doing her best to match his mood and then bring him up with her.
"You drive," he asked, commanded, offered. Not sure. He was supposed to work at letting go. She had the leash already, clipping it onto the dog's collar, and he took it from her so her hands would be free.
"You sure?" she murmured, reaching for the knob of the front door.
"Yeah. So long as you don't mind," he added. He was supposed to stop making decisions for her, unilaterally choosing a course of action. Release his control. "Come, Sash."
The dog nosed for the front door, and Kate nodded and offered him a lopsided smile, a little pained, even as they stepped outside into the bright sunlight. "I'm supposed to work on letting go of my control."
He startled to a stop with a huff of a breath, couldn't help it. Sasha tugged on the leash and Kate was locking the door, but when she turned to look at him, he shook his head.
"He told me the same thing."
"Oh yeah?" she grinned, a careful one but there nonetheless. "We're both control freaks then? Not good, Castle."
"Yeah, you're telling me. If neither of us are in control, what the hell are we in for?"
She laughed then, something tender in her eyes as she regarded him. "Maybe that's the point."
"Scares the shit out of me."
Her hand squeezed around his and she came in close to kiss his cheek, lips soft and brushing. "Me too, super spy. Me too."
"Maybe I should drive."
"Oh, no way. You can't take it back now." She nudged into him and knocked him down the short flight of steps to the sidewalk below, laughing as he brought her with him. "I'm driving. You get to sit patiently in the passenger seat."
"I'm not that patient."
"You're really not. Be good for you," she chuckled. The smile was gorgeous; it lightened his steps as they headed for the Range Rover parked a few houses down. He'd gotten a good spot earlier that weekend, and they hadn't wanted to go anywhere and lose it.
"Yeah, it'll be good for me," he sighed, let himself sound almost melodramatic with it. She lifted startled eyes to his, maybe thinking he was serious, and then she laughed again, brilliant and dazzling. "You're good for me."
She stopped so suddenly that he ran right into her, catching her at the hip and a shoulder to keep them both from toppling. Her hand came up, keys bumping his chin, and she guided them into a kiss.
Hungry, eager, a little overwhelming.
And then she pulled back with a sucked in breath. "Thank you." Her smile was crooked now with something deeply felt. "You just made my whole week, Castle."
They took shifts, and she had the last leg of the journey, maneuvering the Ranger Rover over the dirt road's washed out sections and potholes until they arrived at her father's cabin. She'd had a brief phone call with him when Castle had stopped for a bathroom break and to let them switch drivers, let Sasha out to roam around, so her father knew they were coming.
But for now, for tonight, they were alone. Her dad didn't arrive back from his fishing trip until tomorrow.
She stopped the car and they got out simultaneously, silent and aware, the afternoon's warmth enveloping her body and the ticking of the engine as it cooled. The dog was sniffing at the ground so Kate unclipped the leash, let Sasha wander away.
The cabin was framed by trees drooping in the heat, their shadows dappling over the roof and along the dirt path. Her father had at one time experimented with gardening, and the vegetables were growing in thick clumps along the side of the house - squash, green pepper, cucumber, mint and basil. The jasmine tree he'd nursed into life beside the front door had been cut back and seemed to be dying now, but the hibiscus was flowering in huge blooms as big as her fist.
Castle put his hand at her hip to lead her inside, and when she turned back to him she realized they hadn't brought clothes of any kind, no toiletries. They'd have to borrow things from her father, put on the same clothes tomorrow.
She found she didn't mind.
Kate drifted her fingers back to his forearm, squeezed as she searched downward for his hand. He accepted the clasp and bumped into her side; they headed for the front door and he took the keys from her, unlocking it.
The place smelled of wood and her father's cologne, with a mixture of laundry and Italian seasonings below it that actually reminded her of the walkup they'd rented in Rome after the debacle of Copenhagen. She'd loved that little set of rooms, loved the sunshine on her face and waking up with him safe and hidden.
Castle had stepped ahead of her and into the living room and their hands tugged as he reached the limit of their arms. It pulled her back to the present and she smiled and came forward, let the fingers of her free hand skim his waist, the taut line of his back.
She felt Sasha brush by their legs and come on inside, probably hot in the summer sun outside, and she turned her head to look for the wolf, but Castle was tugging for her attention.
He moved into her and wrapped her up in his arms, a fierce embrace that pulled her off her feet despite being nearly as tall as him. Her back popped as her spine extended and she grinned as he palmed her ass and slid the keys into her back pocket.
"We have the place to ourselves," he murmured. "A pre-honeymoon?"
She laughed and untangled an arm from between them, slipped it up behind his neck. "For one night?"
"Take you where I can get you," he gruffed into her neck. She shivered and closed her eyes to the sensation.
His fingers wriggled in her back pocket and then skimmed up under her shirt, hot and demanding, his other hand already coming down to work at the button of her jeans, and she remembered.
She remembered the phone call and what she was supposed to tell him, remembered he had a job to do, serious business in Chechnya. And even though it wasn't fair, she needed him more. But she couldn't keep quiet for much longer.
"One night," she promised herself.
And then she'd tell him.
He sat with her at the kitchen table and argued over the one thousand piece puzzle of the London skyline her father had attempted and left there, perhaps only a quarter of the way through. She wanted to do the outside edges first, the straight lines and corners, and he wanted to group the scraps of color together, the sections of distinctive architecture like the Tower Bridge.
"This is really pretty analogous to our ways of thinking," she muttered, slapping his hand as he tried to take a piece from her. He had a bottom corner he was working on, the foot of the bridge, and she was piecing together the frame.
"It is at that," he chuckled, popping it into place. She grabbed his thumb and twisted, moving his hands away, and then she had his section lined up with hers and fitting flush.
She grinned triumphantly. "See? Told you so."
He conceded the win and skated his fingers up her forearm. "You want the big picture and I want to look at each individual section, take it step by step until we get there."
"But it worked," she said, a little smile lifting the corner of her mouth.
"It does work."
"Just a puzzle though."
"Isn't all of life a puzzle?" he shot back.
She chuckled and tilted her head at him, swiped the glass of milk she'd left beside her elbow. She swirled her drink and eyed him. "Rather melodramatic of you. And a little oversimplified."
He shrugged. At his feet, the dog lifted her head and her tailed swished the floor, breaking the moment. He glanced down and petted between her ears, grinned at the way the wolf slitted her eyes and leaned heavily into his touch.
"When we get back to New York. . ." she started.
"Yeah?" he asked, lifting from the dog. "We've only got a few days before we're back here for the reception."
She nodded and swallowed her milk, put the glass back down. "I want to go see a play."
He laughed a little, surprised with her. "Okay. You asking or telling?"
She wrinkled her nose at him and ducked her head, that shy Kate coming out once more. "I guess I'm supposed to be asking, but I'm telling."
He laughed harder, raising both eyebrows at her, but she just waved it away.
"What play?" he asked then, finding another puzzle piece and snapping it into place.
"Your mother's."
His hands went still and he felt the sharp curve of the rounded end under his thumb. Castle lifted his head to her and the shyness was gone, the uncertainty replaced with a deliberation and determination that had always thrilled him. She was so strong. An Amazon.
Even in this too.
"By yourself?" he tossed out, hoping for light-hearted but sounding entirely too hopeful for his own good.
She slowly shook her head.
Let go, let go, let go. King had warned him that he had to stop shutting down on these things, stop trying to control every outcome, every meeting.
"When?" he got out.
"Matinee on Wednesday."
He nodded slowly, absorbing that information. "Did she. . .tell you about it?"
"Castle, we talk."
He sucked in a breath and lifted his eyes to her again. "Yeah, I figured you were."
"She's. . .she didn't ask me to go, or you. There's no pressure. We don't have to stick around and go up after the show. Just-"
"I got it," he said quietly. "I'm - just don't know how great a time this is. . .to be opening this up again."
"I know," she said. "I still think you should do this. I think - think it will help. But you don't have to."
He dropped his eyes back to the puzzle, searching for something to fit, make sense, and the silence went on between them. He didn't want to do it, but he didn't want to let her down.
Suddenly Kate was pushing his shoulder back into the chair and sliding her knee over his lap, straddling him at the table. She wrapped herself around him, her palm flat at his back, the other in his hair and stroking down his neck.
"It's okay, Rick. You're going to be okay."
He clutched her waist, hands broad at her sides so that he practically swallowed her, and he let his forehead lower to her shoulder so he could breathe.
"I won't let anything happen to you," she murmured at his temple. "I promise I'll keep you safe."
When his phone vibrated and he looked at it but put it away, Beckett knew she had to say something.
She had to.
They were in her father's kitchen making a quick dinner - chicken simmered in tomato sauce and white wine, some seasonings - and he was supposed to be opening the cans of sauce for her. He had to keep checking his phone instead.
It was becoming unprofessional of her - unethical for sure - and probably irresponsible to withhold this information. She knew that Castle wasn't indispensable to the CIA; she knew there was a whole team working on whatever it was and that his insight might be requested, but she hoped it wasn't necessary.
Excuses.
"Was that the Director?" she murmured.
"Are we gonna have tonight, or are you going to keep pushing?" he muttered.
She took a breath and lifted an eyebrow at him, the tremble of anger singing in and out of her blood in a second. Over and done.
He shook his head, rubbed his hand down his jaw. When he cleared his throat, she could hear the let's try that again in his voice. "It was the Director. Yes."
"He called me," she confessed.
His head came up.
She kept going. "Do you want to know why?"
"When?" Castle asked instead.
"Today," she admitted. "And - well, I answered your phone that day we moved in. I thought it was - I don't know. I answered. He wanted me to pass on the message for you to call him back but I forgot at first and then I. . ."
She trailed off into nothing and bit her bottom lip, hated the shaky flash of panic that burned through her.
"And so he called you today."
Kate gave him a short nod, forced herself to keep going. "There's a situation in-"
"I know," he said softly.
She paused.
He sighed and stood back from the kitchen counter. "Chechnya. I've been reading the reports. The Director has a team. As the head of operations in Eastern Europe - well, it'd be my department. But I'm not in that job officially until after the wedding reception. And Kate. . ."
"I get it," she said quickly. She turned the burner down on the stove to keep the chicken from drying out, handed him the two cans of tomato sauce for him to open.
"They don't need me. This thing will be months of planning - if we do an exfiltration at all."
"Exfiltration?" she asked.
"There's an American agent undercover; he's a hostage in a large group at a hotel. Makes it. . .special."
She waited and he finally cranked the can opener, pulled the lids off. She reached for the sauce, but he nudged her aside and did it himself, pouring it out of the can, a little shake to get the last of it. Taking back control.
"I should have said something sooner," she admitted.
"Didn't matter, one way or another. I haven't wanted to think about work, and God knows you have every right to hate the place."
"I don't," she said quietly.
"Kate." Chiding her for dishonesty?
"I don't hate the CIA. I don't hate your job. You do important work; you protect people from the worst of it, Castle. The parts I don't like are-" She stopped and huffed; he looked up at her.
"What?"
"The parts I don't like all had to do with your father," she shrugged. "Mostly."
"Staying in the CIA means protection for you, for us," he started again, but she'd heard it already. She knew. He thought his father would be less likely to come after her if Castle stayed.
"I know that already," she said quickly. "It's not really - it's how he treated you, Rick. How he manipulated you. His home grown lab experiment. You said it yourself."
He stirred the chicken in its sauce and finally looked at her. "I know."
"That's what I hate. But the Director? He's a nice enough guy. I'm sure he's done his share of covert things we're not allowed to talk about, but I get the sense that he's not going to sell you out just to get what he wants. That he cares about the people and not just the performance."
"I think so," Castle said.
"I like feeling that what I do has some. . .redemptive quality to it?" she went on. She was supposed to be talking to him about these things; she just hadn't expected it to be now. "As a detective, I know that I'm providing a sense of closure - of justice hopefully - for a grieving family, during some of their darkest nights. I know that feeling, Castle. I live it."
"I know," he said quickly. His arm snaked out and slid around her waist, drew her against him at the stove. "I get it. I do."
"But I can see doing this too," she said finally, her cheek pressing against his for a second before she pulled back. "I can see working with you. . .trying to resolve a hostage situation? Getting someone important out of a dangerous country. Doing those positive things. I don't want to head out to Copenhagen and execute a whole group of gun smugglers, Castle, but-"
"I know," he said quickly. "And I shouldn't have taken you with me then. We should never have-"
"No, no. That's not it either. I wanted to go. I was prepared."
"So what was it?" he murmured at her temple. His voice sounded desperate, like he just didn't understand.
"I walk a fine line between wanting justice for my mother and wanting vengeance, Castle. And killing those men in Copenhagen. . .that felt a little too close to vengeance for comfort."
His arm tightened at her waist and she breathed through it, through the dark honesty of telling him deepest part of her fears.
"You won't be doing that. I promise. And the good thing about your position - if you take it - is that you'd be there as a voice of reason. A conscience. I'm not saying my section would never take on those missions - they're necessary. But you'd have the chance to argue against unnecessary force. We'd be able to come up with an alternate plan."
For the first time in months, what he was saying actually sounded appealing.
"Give me time," she said finally, cupping his cheek with her palm. "Just give me some time."