#5 Fragmented
He never thought that the end would be this anti-climactic. That the case that had held them hostage, had redefined her life, their lives, would unravel so swiftly, unstoppably.
He has never before been so thankful for the intrusiveness of modern-day media. This media, with its newspapers, TV news crews, pundits, radio hosts, paparazzi, and bloggers that, upon the first hints of impropriety, had probed and prodded and dug and speculated until the whole elaborate house of cards collapsed on top of one Senator Michael McDunfrey. This hint that he and Beckett strategically leaked to some of Castle's media contacts, when they had come across a new crucial piece of evidence that pointed them in the Senator's direction.
And he was scared, so scared for her life that he could barely think straight, and they argued and fought about it, but then they had reasoned and strategized, and now the Senator, this man who for decades had masterminded, building his empire of money and power behind the scenes, this man who had Beckett's mother killed because he considered her mere collateral damage, this man was in handcuffs. Powerless, he could do nothing but let the police lead him away.
No gunfights, no blood, no pistols at dawn.
And Kate is still alive.
It is finished and she is alive and it is so overwhelming that he doesn't know what to feel because he feels so much. So instead he watches her, finds his rhythm in her movement. She clicks on handcuffs and recites rights, and then she hands the Senator over to Esposito who leads him toward the squad car. She does so professionally, unemotionally, her face stoic.
Then she sinks to the floor, her back against a wall, head between her knees.
He walks toward her, can't not be close. She doesn't move; all he hears is her breathing deeply, as if she has to concentrate to remember the motions, in and out.
But she must know he is close, because she whispers to him, just one word, "Castle," and there is a quiet need laced through her voice that he has never heard from her before.
He squats next to her, scoops one arm underneath her knees, the other around her back until he has her secure with his hand under her armpit and alongside her ribcage. He lifts her up, against his chest. She stays like that, limp in his arms, her forehead hidden against the crook of his neck.
He carries her out, away from the scene, and she doesn't move, and her colleagues look, acknowledge, then purposely look away. He knows this will never be spoken of again.
He takes her to his home and she doesn't protest.
In the elevator she leans her cheek against his shoulder, and when the door opens to his floor, he wraps his fingers around her wrist as they walk. Her skin is soft against the pad of his thumb.
His daughter barrels against him when he opens the door, wraps her arms around his neck.
"Is it over Dad? Are you alright?"
"Yeah, it's over," he reassures her, softly padding her back. She looks up at him, her large, knowing eyes judging the truth of his words. "We're okay."
Satisfied, she lets go of him, then wraps her arms around Beckett next. "I'm so glad," she whispers against the older woman's cheek, and Kate hugs her back, stroking her long fingers through Alexis' hair for a moment.
Alexis steps back, and any leftover energy seems to just drain from Beckett as she sinks in on herself. He sends his daughter to get her some comfortable clothes, then reaches for Kate's hand. He laces his fingers through hers and she looks at him for a moment, her eyes unguarded.
Tugging her forward, he maneuvers her into his bedroom. He turns down the covers, and she sits on the edge, pulls off her heels, then drops sideways onto the mattress, her head against his pillow, pulling her knees tightly up against her chest. He covers her, duvet up to her shoulders, and strokes her long hair off her forehead. Her eyes are already closed.
Alexis hands him a stack of clothes and he deposits them at the foot of the bed, just in case, before they walk out.
"Will she be okay Dad?" Alexis asks in her concerned voice that makes her sound more grown up than her seventeen years.
His heart jitters. "Yeah, Sweetie," he reassures his daughter, hoping he is telling the truth. "In time."
She goes to do her homework and he sits down to write. Because at least he can heal Nikki.
He is in the kitchen when she comes out of his bedroom, barefoot, wearing leggings and one of Alexis's hooded sweatshirts. Her hair is wet from the shower. She smells like his soap.
"Hey," she greets him, voice raspy from hours of disuse.
"How are you feeling?" He continues cubing tomatoes for the homemade tomato soup he's preparing for her, comfort food. Watches her out of the corner of his eyes.
She shrugs her shoulders, I don't know. "Drained."
He nods to the counter. "There's some tea for you." She pads toward the mug, pulls it close to her. But she doesn't drink. She plays with the string of the teabag, rolls the little paper attached to it into a tight cylinder, then unfurls it again. Leaning against the counter, she digs a fingernail into the seam between the tiles, follows it around the corners of the tiles with the pad of her finger. She's quiet, introspective.
This Kate, he isn't sure what she needs, but he doesn't prod. It is enough that she is here, in his company, his space.
With the back of the large knife, he slides the tomatoes off the cutting board and into the large pot where garlic and herbs have been simmering in olive oil. He adds some more spices, adjusts the heat to medium, covers the pot.
He turns around to the sink, runs water over his hands to wash off the tomato juice, when her arms suddenly wrap around him from behind. She holds on tightly, presses her face against his spine, breathing deeply. Moving carefully, he turns off the water, towel dries his hands.
He turns in her embrace but she doesn't let go.
She holds her hands against the panes of muscle along his back, her nose against his breastbone. Then she looks up at him, her eyes luminous.
"Will you love me tonight?" She asks it quietly, with hope in her voice, and lots of need, and emotions she cannot yet address.
His heart thumps against his ribcage. He's scared, scared of the wrong step, the wrong words, because this matters, she matters. He trails his hands over her sides, slides under her sweatshirt, finding the soft, warm, naked skin of her waist. Because he doesn't ever want her to feel not wanted. Her eyelids flutter, and he presses his thumbs against her ribs. She opens her eyes again, looks up at him.
"I already love you."
Her breath hitches, she blinks. Her fingers dig into his back and she drops her forehead against his clavicle, sighing, her warm breath seeping through the soft material of his tee shirt.
"I'm not even sure who I am right now, Castle," she acknowledges softly, almost resigned.
He touches his fingers to her chin, tilts up her face toward his. This thing that has defined her path, has driven her, is done, and he is aware that she will need to come to terms with that. But he knows her, besides and underneath that.
"Don't worry Kate. I know who you are."
She stares, eyes large, but then she smiles at him, warm and intimate.
"We did it, didn't we? We put this thing to rest," she acknowledges, and he remembers a conversation on a set of swings, seemingly so long ago. Warmth flares inside of him, flushes his skin. He beams back at her.
"Yes we did."
And then he tilts her chin up farther, tugs her closer to his mouth, until he feels the flutters of her breath against his lips. Her eyes slide closed; she sidles closer, rests a leg between his, her fingers digging into his back expectantly. He kisses her then, glides his lips against her warm soft mouth, and she unfurls for him, opens, receives. He is tender with her, his kiss full of love and hope and expectation, and she tastes him, nips, gives and takes, their kiss a symphony of movement and harmony.
She falls against him when they slide apart, rests her face against his neck.
"Can I stay for a while?" She murmurs the words against his heated skin.
He wraps her in a tight embrace, kisses her hair.
"As long as you want."
End of Scene