Forty-Seven: Chapter 7
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.
Still Tuesday Afternoon, March 27, 2012 – in a booth at a diner in lower Manhattan
"So, where were we?" Castle asks, a half smirk on his face. It masks the real tension he feels, the stress that is weighing down on both of them. And both of them know it.
They both also know – or at least sense – that this is one of those make or break moments for . . . for whatever this is they are trying to start.
Detective Kate Beckett takes a long, deep breath, exhaling slowly. Her mind is a jungle right about now. Inside her head it is hot, it's humid and treacherous, with dangerous animals in the trees, rustling along the ground, swimming in the waters – while at the same time, exhibiting a sheer, indescribable wonder and peace and beauty. Internally she is in complete conflict.
She is a mess.
On one front, there is a war raging over her guilt for her lie – and how it has been exposed.
On a second front, there is relief that Castle is at least talking with her, after initially bolting out of the precinct.
On a third front, there is anger over Castle – in her mind – betraying her by making a deal for her life, behind her back . . . as if she were some child . . . and with her greatest enemies, no less.
On the final front, there is a reluctant understanding of the motivations which drove Castle to make such a deal in the first place. She can't fault his logic, damn him.
In the end, she understands – almost admires and appreciates his actions. But she is still pissed. Okay, it's irrational, maybe, but that's why they are called emotions, right? The anger still permeates throughout her spirit, nonetheless. Castle, for once, is tuned in to her anger, and wisely stays quiet.
"Let her talk it out," he thinks to himself. He's still angry with her for lying, and for lying for so long. He feels like a chump. He feels like a first-class fool. His first thought was that she lied because she didn't feel the same way, she was embarrassed. She didn't know how to let him off easily. That's what made the most sense.
But then he heard those three little words offered up while in she was in full retreat back at the cemetery. Those words have changed everything. She lied, yeah, but she says she loves him? Don't people do stupid, crazy, irrational things out of love sometimes? Didn't he – with the infamous 'Mr. Smith' – do something impossibly stupid, crazy and irrational? And more than anything else, after a year of chasing and hoping and praying . . . and then to lose it all less than two hours ago - only to have what he has wanted for a couple of years actually drop in his lap - well, is he really willing to lose it all now?
Hell, no, he's not.
He's just as much a mess as she is. Fitting.
Her voice snaps him back to the present moment, as he hears her speaking. In the background, he listens to Sinatra singing over the old, crackling speakers in the ceiling.
"You're right about one thing, Castle," she begins with a small smile of humility. "It really shouldn't be this complicated."
He merely nods his head. "Let her talk it out," he reminds himself again. "And don't say something stupid. Not now."
"I still don't like the fact that you made a deal for me," she continues. "It's my life, not yours –"
Okay, so much for being quiet, and letting her talk it out.
"Beckett," he interrupts, the small, previously quenched fire inside him receiving a fresh burst of oxygen, threatening to rage yet again.
"No, Castle," she, in turn, interrupts herself. "Let me finish. I don't like it one bit. I hate it in fact. But I do understand. I really do. And I don't like that you have hid this from me all this time – but that's kind of the pot and black kettle thing," she half smiles. "Given that I lied to you and kept lying for the past year or so."
"Complicated," he says softly, agreeing with her. "That's what worries me about 'us'."
"Me, too," she agrees as well. "Why do we seem to make everything so . . . so . . ."
"Difficult?" he finishes for her.
"I was going to say complicated," she smiles.
"Of course you were," he smiles in return.
"Seriously, though," she continues, and the emotions in her eyes match the words coming from her mouth. "I'm so sorry that I lied to you. I know it's unforgivable. And I'm sorry I kept you in the dark for so long. It's inexcusable. It was a horrible thing to do. And that's the problem. I'm just worried that . . . I . . ."
"What is it, Beckett?" he asks gently, trying to prod her along.
"I'm just worried that . . . in a similar situation, I might do it again. Nothing is ever easy with us, Castle. You and I just seem to take the difficult road with everything."
"I know what you mean," he agrees. He has a faraway look in his eyes. "Two summers ago I asked you to go to the Hamptons with me. A simple ask for a weekend away. What a disaster! You end up with Tom Demming, and I end up with Gina. I ask you to come away for a weekend and we end up not talking for months. An entire summer, gone. That's you and I in a nutshell."
He shakes his head rapidly, remembering how horrifically that summer turned out.
"Actually, I had broken up with Demming that day, before you left with Gina," she tells him softly. "I was hoping to go away for the weekend with you."
"You are shitting me," Castle explodes, just a little too loudly, as a few heads in the diner turn their way. Looking around meekly, he visibly shrinks a couple of inches, crouching into the booth seat.
"I'm sorry," he whispers loudly, repeating himself. "I'm sorry! I . . . you . . . when I . . . say that again?"
She is half-laughing now, but he sees the tears in her eyes. Regretful tears. Yeah, half laughing, half crying. That's the perfect image for their relationship.
"You were leaving, and I had just broken up with Tom," she tells him. "I was ready to ask you if the offer for the weekend was still open. Then Gina showed up, and you two were all cozy and . . ."
She can't even finish the sentence, and her despair is only made passable for her by the expression on Castle's face. It's a mixture of horror, sadness, grief, anger, confusion. He resembles a grown up Calvin, without the Hobbes.
"Complicated," he repeats, sadly.
"At least you have answered one question that has worried me for months," she tells him, her voice distant. "Before Roy died, he told me they were coming after me again, because I was getting too close. Then he dies, and I get shot. Ever since then, I wake up in the middle of the night, in the morning, wondering how in the hell am I still alive. Wondering why they haven't come for me again. Whoever 'they' are. I guess I have you to thank for that."
They are quiet for a moment, and their waitress appears out of nowhere. Betty, according to her nametag. She's fortyish, with short curly black hair and a bubbly disposition.
"I get the feeling I'm interrupting something," she smiles affably. "But I don't want you wondering where your waitress is, either."
"No, no, you are all right – no problem at all," Castle tells her. "Thank you very much. She will have . . ."
He glances at Kate, waiting for her to place her order.
"Water, with lemon," she replies.
"Two of those," he agrees, as Betty offers a smile and walks away toward the kitchen. Castle turns his attention back to the detective, and there is a question on his mind.
"So you think you could do that again? Lie like that?"
She looks at him for a moment, but cannot hold the gaze. She glances away. Damn him, she doesn't want to lie.
"I don't know, Castle. I just don't know. I don't want to. I want to always be honest with you. But I guess when I get scared or cornered, who knows how I react? Do you think that I planned on lying like that last summer? Do you think that I planned for that lie to stay out there for so long? Don't you think there were many times – countless times, Castle – that I wanted to tell you, that the words were right there on my lips, that I wanted to tell you to just hold on, don't stop loving me, give me a little time . . ."
"You kind of said that on the swings," he remarks,
"You think so?" she asks, knowing that he is just being himself, giving her an out.
"Well, kinda – sorta – maybe – in so many words . . . with sign language and pig-latin . . . like you said, we don't do easy. We do complicated."
They are quiet again, as Betty returns with two waters.
"Ready to order? Or do you want me to come back?"
Both ask her to stay, and after Kate has ordered a patty melt with chips and Castle has ordered a roast beef sandwich with vegetable soup, he does something that is new for them, something that catches both him and her off guard. He reaches toward her, with both hands, and grabs her hands. She watches, in amazement, as his large hands completely swallow hers. She is reminded again of how big a man, how large a man Castle is next to her. Clearly not the kind of man she has gone out with in the past.
"Back in the cab," he begins. "You were starting to tell me something. You asked me to believe you, to not let this afternoon . . . sour me to what you wanted to say. I interrupted, because I felt there was something I needed to share, to confess as well."
She nods her head, almost grateful that he is bringing this up, that he is fighting to get them back to a place where they might be able to move forward.
"What was it you were going to tell me?" he asks. She stares down at his large hands which hide her own. She notices how softly he is holding her hands, recognizing that while he wants her there, while he wants her to open up . . . he isn't holding on tight. If she needs to choose the flight option again, he will allow that. It makes her mind up for her.
It is months and months of internal conflict, months and months of discussions with Dr. Burke, months and months of vague overtures to her father. And his final question seals the deal for her.
"Kate, it's okay," he tells her. "What do you want? What is it that –"
"You," she replies suddenly. "I just want you, Castle."
He stops rubbing her hand with his thumb, and the expression in his eyes tells her that this is the last thing he expected to hear. She can't really blame him.
"Too much?" she asks. "I can always complicate it a-"
"No, no!" he offers, again a bit too loudly for the small contained space they take up in the diner. "It's just . . . I . . ."
"Rick? If you're trying to pay me back for my reaction a year ago, then –"
"No, no!" he repeats, and he releases her hands, rubbing his own hands together for a few seconds. When he begins, his eyes are wet and glistening. Seeing the emotions in his eyes is too much for her, and within seconds, two sets of rain-filled eyes stare at one another at the table.
"Four years I've been right here," he begins, his voice soft and cracking with an emotion she has never seen or heard from this fun-loving writer. "Four years just waiting for you to open your eyes to see that I'm right here. And that I'm more than a partner. Every morning I bring you a cup of coffee just so I can see a smile on your face because . . ."
He pauses for a brief second to wipe away a tear that threatens to escape.
"Because I think you are the most remarkable, maddening, challenging, frustrating person I have ever met. Four years, I've wanted to heard words like that from you. I love you Kate. I've tried not to love you, and it doesn't work. I've tried to forget about you, but it doesn't work. And I want so bad, God knows, I want so bad to believe that after all of this, after a year of frustration I can't even begin to describe . . . I want to believe that it can be as simple as 'you want me' . . . I'm trying to wrap my head around this, Kate, I really am. I'm trying to believe this, I want to believe it can be this simple –"
"It can be, Rick," she interrupts. "It is this simple. I don't have your words, I don't have your eloquence. So where you can speak a litany of wonder, with beautiful words I can't even dream of stringing together . . . I can only tell you that I want you, only you. That I love you."
And there it is – both of them have said the words now. Both question whether the other believes the words spoken. In the end, they can either accept this . . . or complicate the hell out of it.
He reaches his hand to hers, taking it in a quick smooth motion, and brings her hand to his lips. He places a soft kiss on her knuckles, then her fingers.
"I love you, too," he tells her. "But you know this already."
"Yes, I do," she admits, lowering her eyes again. "I'm just glad that you still do. After all this time, after what I have done, after –"
"It doesn't matter," he tells her.
"Yes, it does matter," she argues. "If we don't learn from this, if I don't learn from this, then we will repeat this over again. And maybe the next time, we won't be so lucky."
"The next time?" he questions. Surely she doesn't believe they could survive this again.
"There will be a next time, Castle," she explains, placing soft, reciprocating kiss on his fingers. "That's the problem. Oh, it won't necessarily be a lie. But I will say something that I don't think through, or that you take the wrong way. You're going to say something or do something that offends me. Somewhere in the future, we are going find a way to muck this up again."
"Then we just have to forgive, and move on," he tells her.
"Just like that?" she asks.
"Just like that," he replies. "If this really is love we are talking about, the real honest to goodness kind of love . . . well, an author far better than me wrote about that kind of love," he smiles, and releases her hand. He places his hands on the table in front of him, picking up his glass of water. He takes a long drag of the clear liquid, and places the glass back on the table.
"He said – and I quote – 'love is patient, love is kind. It does not keep a record of wrongs. It rejoices in the truth.'"
He reaches for her hand, which she offers easily.
"I want you to be able to take that word, the word 'love', out of those sentences, and put my name in there. If you can get to the point where you can say that 'Castle is patient with me, he is kind with me, he doesn't keep a record of my wrongs, he rejoices in the truth with me' . . . if you can say those things, and if I can place your name in those sentences – well, that's a hell of a start, don't you think? That's the kind of love I'd hope you and I could build."
Her tears are falling freely now, and were they not holding hands, anyone offering a glance in the diner would swear that there was a heart-rending break-up occurring. In fact, it is exactly the opposite, as two people not used to straight talk, two people more used to innuendo and banter have decided to lay a much firmer foundation for their next steps.
"See," she tells him between sniffles. "All I can manage is 'I want you', and you have to go quoting the book of Corinthians."
They both smile now, and he squeezes her hand.
"Well, it's a good start. Seems you know some of that book by heart as well," he remarks. He hears the chime from her phone again. It's the fifth or sixth time he has heard it, since they were in the cab.
"Someone's trying awfully hard to get a hold of you," he tells her.
"Gates," she offers quickly. That's her ring and alert tone.
"Don't you want to know what she wants?" he asks.
"I already know what she wants," she replies quickly. "I left a perp in the interrogation room. Walked away from an investigation without any explanation."
"I'm sorry, Kate," he says apologetically. He knows how Captain Victoria Gates is with rules and policies and procedures. This won't be good. For either of them. He knows Gates has been looking for a reason to punch his ticket out of there, and he – they – have just given it to her. Kate allowing her feelings for him to override an investigation?
No, this won't be pretty.
"It is what it is, Rick," she tells him as she hits the CALL button, and he sees that she means it. She's ready to take, ready to face whatever comes from the ex-IA captain.
He glances down at his watch. They've been gone for a good two hours almost. Yeah, this won't be good at all. He hears the conversation begin.
"Hello, sir," Kate begins. "I'm sorry for the –"
She is cut off, and is none too pleased about it. Castle watches her face morph from frustrated to pensive.
"Beckett?" he asks in a whisper. But she shakes her head. No, this isn't good.
A minute later, he is really worried, as Kate's face turns from pensive to ashen, mixed with a portion of anger.
"Are you sure of this, sir? Absolutely certain?"
Okay, now he is really worried. He tries to interrupt again.
"Kate?" he asks, his voice still low, and now she turns her gaze to him, still listening but now there is something else there.
Fear?
"Kate?" he asks a third time, and she holds up one finger and mouths the words "Just a second, Rick." She nods her head once, and then a second time.
"Yes, sir . . . Yes, sir, I understand. We'll be right there."
She hangs up, and now he notices. Her hands are trembling. Yeah, fear it is.
"What's going on, Kate?"
"There was a botched robbery last night. Two men. One of them was shot at the scene of the crime. He had bled out in the living room trying to escape. The other got away."
"Okay, so what's the problem?" Castle asks. He doesn't mean to be insensitive, but hey, this is what they do. They investigate murders. They catch killers. Why is this one any different?
"The robbery was at Roy Montgomery's home. Evelyn was there. The girls were not. She got a shot off at one of the robbers as he fled. He didn't make it. The other attacked her, knocking the gun from her hands. She tried to fight the perp off, but he was too strong for her. Knocked her out. She's lucky to be alive. When she came to, she checked the house. That's when she found dead assailant number one, sprawled out in the foyer next to the front door. Number two got away.
"No honor among thieves," Castle muses to himself, out loud. Kate simply nods in agreement.
"She said he didn't take any cash, any money," Kate continues. "He wasn't looking for valuables. He was looking for old files of Roy's. And he got them."
"Files?" Castle repeats, nervously.
"Files," she confirms, the single word hanging over them both like the pending noose from the execution gallows.
Castle knows what she is thinking. There are no coincidences. Yeah, there are tons of burglaries in New York City every day. But how many robbers are casing the homes of deceased police officers – not looking for money, but looking for files. Files that a certain Mr. Smith probably now has in his possession. Unless those files were copies. Unless Roy had kept the originals somewhere.
"Damn," Castles whistles. Just when things were looking up for the writer and his detective.
"Always complicated," Kate says simply. She raises her hand to wave Betty over, while Castle begins to ease out of the booth from his side, leaving a hundred dollar bill on the table. Betty arrives as Castle extends his hand, helping Kate out of the booth. They both begin walking away.
"Sorry, Betty," Castle tells her. "Emergency – please give our order to someone else. Anyone. Your choice." He points at the c-note on the table. "That's yours. Thanks again."
Betty glances down, her eyes widening, as she picks up the green bill, a large smile now overtaking her face.
"Thank you!" she hollers toward the door, but they are gone.