So…I rarely do stuff in a logical order anyway. And since these are stand-alone shots anyway, they're basically just going to be written in what order I think of them.
Chapter 2: 1x05, A Chill Goes Through Her Veins
It was my mother. Not my father.
"We were supposed to go to dinner together."
He can't breathe. Never will again.
"There was a detective waiting for us."
The pain kills him. It's deep, it's muted, but it's there.
"They found her body. She had been stabbed."
She's giving him a calm recounting, what writers call the "police report:" it's spare and devoid of editorialization, but his author's imagination fills in every gap in agonizing detail. He can see it, clear as he sees her now. He can see young Kate waiting impatiently with her father, arms folded, pretty face screwed up in mild irritation because she's hungry. The thread of worry as they head home, wondering what happened. And he feels the punch in the gut as they see the officer at their front door, hat in hand, face heavy with the news he's about to give them. That sick, horrible eternity between realizing what's happened and hearing it out loud. She still carries it with her, every day. When she deserves so much more. So much happier.
He can see her blinking, trying not to let herself tear up in front of him, and the lump in his throat just won't go away because he's never seen her like this.
"The killer was never caught."
He can't help himself. He has to know. "Why do you wear the watch?"
It takes her a moment to answer, another clue that she's not over it. "My dad took her death hard. He's sober now. Five years."
The sad smile she gives him is heartbreaking. He finds himself smiling back but he has the irrational desire to cry for these people he's never met.
"So this is for the life that I saved – " and she pulls a chain out from under her shirt, holding up a ring – "and – this – is for the life that I lost."
Her grief is soft now, gentle, more a lingering sadness, but he reads the hours she cried, the depression that swamped her like a heavy black wave, the terrible jagged hole in her heart that took years to let her breathe. And he aches for her. Because Kate Beckett deserves better.
She tries to shake it off with a flippant comment about Nikki Heat, but though he responds in kind, his mind is still lost in a maze of images and ideas and pain and he's a thousand miles away as she gathers her things and prepares to leave for the night.
It takes him a few seconds to realize she's walking to the elevator, and he scrambles to his feet to hurry after her.
"Was wondering if you were going to stay here all night," she says archly, holding the elevator door till he's beside her, then pressing the button for the doors to close.
"Uh – no. Sorry."
The elevator rumbles and creaks to life – he has always had the vaguely nagging fear that someday he's going to get stuck in this old machine – and as it goes down, Castle sneaks a glance at Kate. She's staring at the floor, lost in thought, arms folded over her chest.
"Thank you." Her eyes flick up to his, a silent question. "For trusting me. For – telling me."
Her lips curve into a soft smile. And in spite of the voice in his mind hissing Shut up, Rick, you're just fumbling right now, he can't keep his mouth shut. Because words are incomplete but he needs to try. "And I know – I know you've heard it and it's trite and it doesn't fix anything but – I'm sorry."
But even though it's the most useless phrase he could have uttered – really, Rick? Her mother was murdered ten years ago and that's what you're going to go with? – she doesn't say anything, just keeps looking down.
It takes him a second to realize she's biting her lip, her eyes shut. Her breathing is shallower, like there's a hitch she can't get rid of. He sees the soft flutter of eyelashes, like she's blinking rapidly.
His stomach twists, because it had never occurred to him that Kate Beckett cries.
He aches to soothe, to comfort, to fix, but this enigmatic, dazzling woman is too much of a mystery to sling an arm around her shoulder and call it a win.
"Beckett – "
She doesn't react, doesn't move, just keeps looking down, her arms folded over her chest as if she can keep everything tucked in neatly, wipe this away as the fluke result of being tired after a long day, forget it happened, but Castle knows that can't happen, because her words are seared into his mind permanently and he will never, ever forget the sad, helpless look on her face that he never, ever, ever wants to see again.
He swallows. "Kate – "
That catches her attention. She finally looks up at him, and his breath stops. Her eyes are glittering, heavy with unshed tears, girlish and soft and vulnerable. Ten years is a long time. Enough for far too much hurt for one person.
And talking has proven to be an utter failure, so he goes with the only thing he could possibly do that would be dumber. He kisses her.
It's very soft, very delicate, almost chaste, just his lips on hers, his hand just barely brushing the edge of her jaw. Her mouth is soft, receptive, warm against his, and there's a warm glow spreading in his chest and it's so painfully perfect that he can't imagine not kissing her now. He feels wetness against his skin, a tear she wasn't able to stop, and wipes it gently away with his thumb.
The ding of the elevator door startles him, and the kiss ends abruptly as he flinches. The doors slide open, and he looks back at Kate guiltily. But the look on her face – it's hard to read. It's not quite a smile, but it's not sad, and there's a mildness, a softer line to the mouth he's just kissed.
Kate Beckett is a mystery. He wonders if he'll ever figure her out.
His mouth is still warm from hers. And he wants to try.
She's the first one to move, stepping out of the elevator as he hurries to catch up. He's spent enough time with her to be accustomed to tagging along at her heels. It's his place and he likes it.
They reach the front doors, but before she goes outside, leaves him, she pauses in the doorway, turning back to him, eyes dark and mesmerizing.
And yet again, his mouth won't stop trying to fix things. "Until tomorrow, Detective."
"You can't just say 'Night?'"
No. He can't. "I'm a writer. 'Night' is boring. 'Until tomorrow' is more…hopeful."
Her mouth curves into a half-smile, a bit of the gravity lifting, her eyes lighter, and he relaxes because there's a faint pink blush on her cheeks but she isn't commenting on the audacity of him feeling hopeful when he's just kissed her for no reason other than he really, really needed to. Her fingers curl lightly around the doorframe for a moment as she thinks.
"Till tomorrow, Castle."
She's out the door and into the night before he can form a response, but somehow it doesn't bother him. Kate Beckett has a tendency to get the last word. He doesn't mind.
That night, as Kate's washing her plate from dinner, there's a knock at her door. She opens it to find a delivery boy, who hands her a beautiful spray of soft pink-and-white orchids tied with a silver ribbon.
She knows who sent them even before she finds the little white notecard on the ribbon's end.
For you. Just because. - RC