Oh Kate.
He sees it in her eyes. He hears it in her words, even though her words say something else. Her words lie. Her eyes do not.
It's not how he thought they would end up. It's not how he would have written it.
He'd brought flowers. He's known her now for going on four years. Thousands of conversations, thousands of glances studying her mannerisms; the little things she does when she's happy, or sad, or angry. She's not aware of these telltale signs that give her away. None of us are. But he's learned the unspoken nuances of her facial expressions – the cute eye rolls, the raised eyebrow, the small uptick when she doesn't want to smile. And the darkness in her eyes when she's hiding something. How she glances down, the pause in her eyes as she speaks something that's not quite true.
"I heard that you tried to save me."
He sees the downward glance, and his heart stutters for a moment. What do you mean 'you heard'. You were there. He didn't think it could get any worse. She's alive, she's pulled through the surgery, she's sitting up in the hospital bed. She's recovering. She's going to be okay. It should be a celebration. It's anything but.
"They say there are some things better not remembered."
Just a couple of days ago she had said they were done. Now he knows she meant it. And in the most hurtful way possible, she cuts him loose. He knows in his heart that she is lying. He knows she remembers what he said. He knows she remembers him hovering above her, begging her to stay, begging her to fight, and telling her that he loves her.
This is not a woman who blocks things out. This is a woman who holds on to every detail. It's not just her job; it's who she is. Every life experience has been a layer of what they have jokingly referred to as "the Beckett Onion." Those experiences – some beautiful and others horrific – have made the woman. They aren't forgotten blemishes blocked out. They are the foundation, added layer by layer to the work of art he has fallen in love with.
This is a woman who sees the hidden clues, hears the subtle truths, unveils that which is covered up. It is why they have worked so well together, professionally. Her instinct and his imagination. It's been an almost symbiotic partnership, where they feed off each other.
This is a woman who knows every detail available to her about her mother's murder; she's cleaned the vomit from her father's bathroom floor and his coarse face as she nursed him back to sobriety.
Yet she remembers nothing about her shooting? She remembers nothing about his admission of love to her?
No, he doesn't believe her. He knows her better than that. Yeah, being shot is traumatic. But he knows her, and he knows that losing her mother was far more traumatic than any physical attack on her. She remembers Captain Montgomery being killed. She remembers standing at the podium. And that's it?
He doesn't buy it. Then it gets worse.
Then the dismissal.
"Castle, I'm really tired right now."
The words are said with the same darkening of the eyes. He knows this – he's seen this before from her, but never been on the receiving end. Cripes, when did it all fall apart?
"Of course, of course. We'll talk tomorrow"
"You mind if we don't? I just need a little bit of time."
Now he knows for certain. There has always been "until tomorrow", or "see you in the fall" or some other see-you-later they share. But this isn't "see you later".
This is goodbye.
"Sure. Sure. How much time?"
"I'll call you ok . . ."
No, you won't, he thinks to himself. Who does she think she is kidding?
There is a war going on inside him now, a war that has exploded on the battlefield in just the few seconds they have spoken. A silent fury is building, fighting the hurt that he knows he can't hide from his face. He feels the tears stinging in his eyes, he feels his arms shaking. He's got to get out of there, and fast. The smile and easy banter he witnessed between her and motorcycle boy as he entered the room have been replaced by a sterile antiseptic being roughly administered deep inside his chest.
There is a war going on inside him now; the knowledge that whoever is responsible for her shooting is still out there, certain to try again. This knowledge fights against his own emotional self-preservation of flight, to get away from the woman he loves who has just lied to him, who has just summarily dismissed him from her presence.
He hates lies. Lies led to a wife cheating on him, leaving him, and leaving their daughter. Lies led to a second wife pretending to care about his daughter. He knows the road these lies lead down. He doesn't know why she is lying. Does it really matter? He knows the cliff this highway leads to. He's fallen off that cliff before. He just didn't think he would even approach that cliff again. Yet here he is, in a freefall, with his stomach in his chest, suffocating.
She's looking down, looking away as he exits the room. She won't even look at him. The last vision he has of her isn't one with a smile, or a frown, or even a tear or laugh. It's the clouded darkness in her eyes – that is her last gift to him. Had he been one second faster, it is him in that bed, after taking a bullet for her. A bullet darn near stopped his heart. And now a lie has broken it. As he walks down the hallway, the only thing holding his heart together is a simmering anger at the betrayal he feels, that he didn't see coming.
She had said "we're done."
He should have believed her. He does now.