"I'm hungry," Castle whines.
They'd lost the tape a couple miles back, the black ribbon of the cassette erupting from the deck in an explosion of coil, a victim of sudden overuse after years of lying dormant.
"You can't possibly be hungry. You practically cleaned out all the snacks back at the station. "
"I need real food. I'm a growing boy."
"This is another one of your delaying tactics, isn't it?" she surmises.
"There's a drive-thru in a couple miles, and I have to pee," he argues.
"You have a remarkably tiny bladder."
"It's unladylike to speak of a gentleman's urinary habits," he says haughtily.
She aims a reproachful look at him.
"We both know you're no gentleman," she says. Then, with a smirk, "And I'm no lady."
She reaches for the car door handle.
"You're coming in with me? It'll just take a few," he says, about to exit the Mustang into the Burger King parking lot. "And you really shouldn't aggravate your ankle more."
"Last time I let you go in alone, you got held up."
He grins crookedly. "Do I detect actual concern for my well-being?"
"By all means, fend for yourself," she rebuts, crossing her arms and settling back into her seat, blushing furiously.
"You want your usual?"
"Whatever."
He walks away with a self-righteous swagger.
God, he's annoying.
She thumbs through the writer's copy of On the Road. Personally, she thinks Kerouac's prose is overwrought and his characters, downright unlikeable. But that's just her. She slips the novel back into the driver's side door pouch, her eyes drifting over to Castle's empty seat, where she spies his Moleskine notebook, and a sudden urge to take a peek overpowers her. What the hell has he been writing about her anyway?
She's about to quench the thirst of her curiosity when his door flies open and he hops back in, a scrolled-up newspaper tucked in his armpit and a greasy bag of fast food and a tray of drinks in hand.
"They had the Times," he explains at the question in her gaze. "Thought we could do the crossword together."
"You and your road trip games," she exasperates, snatching the food bag from him.
"Sorry we can't all stare stoically into the distance in quiet solitude."
"I do not have a stoic stare."
"Yes, you do, and it's adorable."
She glares at him and stuffs some fries into her mouth, ignoring the flutter of her heart.
"Five letters. '84 Pulitzer Prize winner for Glengarry Glen Ross."
"Mamet," she answers.
"You read plays?" he asks, in awe. "Is there anything you don't do?"
Irritation itches at her. Does he have to look at her like she's a goddamn hero? Especially with his far too kissable lips? She remembers skimming her mouth over his cheek that first night, remembers how his skin burned under her touch, how—
"How much longer until we get there?" she asks abruptly, resisting the overwhelming desire to pull over and haul him against her, tangle her fingers in his hair, and—Christ. This is getting out of hand.
He consults his map, untwisting and unfolding it until it's all too unwieldy, his wrist almost hitting her cheek.
"Watch it!" she cries out. It's imperative that she put as much distance between them as possible, her impulse control already hovering on a razor's edge.
"Do you want me to figure out an ETA or not?"
"Just—" she shoves his arm away, "Stay on your side of the car."
"Technically, all sides of the car are my side," he says. "You're very cranky today. More so than usual."
"Only because I have a dilettante writer invading my personal space," she says, practically growling. Oh, yeah, she's very cranky.
"Did you just call me an amateur?"
"You're certainly not an expert, One Book Wonder," she counters.
"You did not just say that," he gasps. "You—you're absolutely maddening."
"I'm maddening?" she asks with a scoff.
"And controlling. You won't even let me choose the music."
"Do you have to blast it at full-volume?"
"It's a sin to listen to rock any other way."
"My god, how much longer must I endure this torture?" she groans in frustration.
As if she timed it, they pass a road sign marked with the remaining distance to Santa Fe.
"Seventy-five miles," he says in a clipped tone. He folds up the map and unceremoniously crams it back into the glove compartment. "You'll be rid of me in seventy-five miles."
She sighs, regretful. She doesn't want to end this, whatever the hell it is, on a sour note.
"What's the next clue?" she asks, hoping he'll see it as a gesture of goodwill.
His petulant pout transforms into a bright grin, and he eagerly retrieves the paper from the dash, snapping it open with a renewed vigor. She smiles in relief.
"Four letters…"
"Albuquerque is the largest city on Route 66 in New Mexico, and the third largest one between Chicago and Los Angeles," Castle rattles off as they pass through it, driving by adobe-style buildings and kitschy souvenir stores. He gasps, "There're volcanoes in the surrounding area? And you can ride a hot air balloon year-round? Kate—"
"Castle. You swore. No more stops."
"But there's so much history here. Not even one museum?"
"Not today."
She flicks the blinker on, preparing to merge onto 1-25, the last bit of highway that will take them north to Santa Fe. He turns a page in his travel guide.
"Wait. There's something we can do that's not technically a stop."
She pinches the bridge of her nose, a headache forming. "Not technically?"
"It means taking a slightly longer route to Santa Fe, but we'd get to go over the singing road. Just keep driving straight. "
"What the hell is a singing road?"
"They put special grooves in the road, so that when you drive over them at a certain speed for a stretch, it plays America the Beautiful."
"How long is 'slightly longer' exactly?" she asks.
"Around forty miles."
"That's another forty minutes, at least!" she exclaims.
"What if I told you it's about the journey, not the destination?"
"I'd say that's pretty cliché. Even for you."
He glances at the rapidly approaching exit for 1-25 and then, over to her.
"What's it gonna be, Motorcycle Girl?" he challenges with a devil-may-care grin, but she knows he's just posturing, once again hiding behind a charm offensive to protect his true feelings. Knows he's already bracing himself for disappointment. Knows he'll do his best not to openly sulk if she decides against him. Because mystifyingly, her wants and needs are important to him.
And equally mystifyingly, his wants and needs have become important to her, too. Extremely important.
God-fucking-damnit.
She's the one to suggest they put the top down, so they can hear it better.
He can't believe his luck. She even hums along to the tune once they drive over the special grooves at the recommended speed of forty-five miles per hour, while he shouts out the lyrics to the patriotic song. The whole thing is done within a matter of minutes, but he's thrilled, nonetheless.
Now, he just needs to figure out how to convince her to keep traveling with him.
She wears a red bandana wrapped around her hair today, effortlessly reminding him of an old-fashioned movie star in a headscarf, only more badass and way sexier.
"Stop taking pictures!" she cries out, throwing a hand up as he snaps away with her Nikon.
"America's not the only beautiful one."
He can't read her expression, half her face obscured by her Aviators, but she laughs loudly, a big, snorting thing.
"That was horrible."
He wishes he could say something that didn't sound like a cheesy come-on, but it's always worth it to hear her laugh. Even if it's at his expense.
"You're gonna miss my pretty adjectives when I'm gone," he teases.
Her smiles drops.
Huh. Not the reaction he was expecting. Maybe she doesn't want this to end, either.
"Or we don't have to part ways," he suggests lightly, "We're heading the same direction, aren't we? We could continue this, um, partnership."
"I'm not going home," she says stiffly, her hard mask suddenly returning.
Fuck. Not good.
"Where then?"
The set of her jaw clenches rigidly.
"Anywhere but."
Who or what is she avoiding back home? he ruminates.
"Why?" he asks aloud, craving answers, the need to know her, know all of her, an insatiable burn that rages like a wildfire within him.
But she's unforthcoming, tight-lipped and close-mouthed. When they drive by a road sign that proclaims: You Are Entering Santa Fe, New Mexico, he panics.
Shit. If she could just trust him, just tell him—
But there's no more time to wait her out anymore. He needs to push. Now or never.
"It's your mom, isn't it?"
Her whole body tenses, her grip straining around the steering wheel so hard, her knuckles whiten.
That's all the confirmation he needs.
He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Vivien's ominous message since they left the gas station.
Bug, please. Help him.
Couldn't forget how spooked Kate had been, and he quickly abandoned his high school sweetheart theory. It wasn't a romantic partner she'd lost. Because Bug didn't sound like a term of endearment from a lover, but more like one from a family member or close relative. The more he thought about it, about each puzzle piece she'd reluctantly handed him…
My mom's…uh, not really in the picture, either.
Don't really think of murder as entertaining.
…the more obvious it became, the clues cascading together in startling clarity, and it started to make horrible sense why someone like her dropped out of school, why she woke up in the middle of the night screaming, why she knew martial arts and how to handle a gun, and why she didn't want to interact with the police.
Kate is dead quiet and unresponsive, so he pushes again.
"And she wasn't supposed to die. Someone hurt her," he says, "That's why you learned how to fight. Why you can't sleep. Why you can't trust strangers and drink to forget." He pauses before he delivers the final blow. "Because someone took her from you and you don't know how to live with that."
There's a terrible beat of silence, so staggering and intense, that he forgets how to breathe.
And then, she's jerking the wheel and braking hard, wheels crunching over gravel as she pulls over to the shoulder of the road. He half-expects her to slap him, but she surprises him again by ripping the keys from the ignition, abandoning her seat with the slam of the door, and stalking toward the back of the car with purpose. He scrambles to follow and discovers her on her knees, trying to detach the bike caddy from the car hitch.
"What are you doing?"
She jams a small key from the key-ring into a lock that keeps the metal pin, holding the caddy and hitch together, in place, but the lock doesn't break open. She forgot to press down—
"You don't know me, Castle. You think you do. But you don't," she spits out, venomous and raw with hurt.
He squats on his haunches, lowering to her level.
"Maybe I don't. But I do know you don't have to go through this alone."
She wavers. "It's not your burden to bear."
"So it's okay for me to tell you my deepest fears and insecurities, to burden you with my troubles and my heartbreak, but I can't do the same for you?"
"This is different," she scrapes out.
"If you really want to run, Kate. Fine. But I know we can be better off traveling together. As partners. And if you don't believe that now, then give me one more day to prove it to you. Prove that you can trust me with your story. The good, the bad, and the ugly. 24 hours. That's it."
Apprehensive, she removes her Aviators, tucking them into the front of her shirt, and he sees the longing painted on her face; can see how badly she wants to believe him. Wants to trust him.
"What happens if you don't like what you see?" she asks, her voice so small and shattered, it shreds him to pieces.
"What happens if you don't let me look? I can take it. Promise." His right hand curls into a fist, only the smallest finger sticking out. "Pinky promise."
She stares at his offering, stock still. He lifts his own sunglasses (a classic pair of Ray-Bans) onto his head, so she can see that he's serious. That he means what he says.
Slowly, she removes the key from the lock and rises to her feet. He does the same, his heart bucking in his chest like a skittish horse.
"Those are really binding," she says softly and his heart eases.
"A sacred covenant really," he says, grinning reassuringly. "One that I definitely won't break. Because I am not a sociopath."
A small smile begins to break dawn at the corner of her mouth.
"That still remains to be seen."
He chuckles. And then, earnestly, stretching his arm out further, his pinky raised, he prompts, "No running? For now?"
When her pinky wraps around his, warm and firm, and she whispers in agreement, "No running," ardent hope bursts through him.
He squeezes his grip against hers to seal the deal and mark its significance.
She squeezes back, a long, weighted beat goes by, and then, she reaches for the chain of her necklace, bringing out the ring looped on the other end. Her fingers feather over it reverently as she gathers her words and courage.
"This was hers," she says in a measured tone. "We were supposed to get dinner. I was home for winter break, and…she never showed at the restaurant. A detective was waiting at our door when we got back two hours later. He said…" Her lower lip trembles. "He said she'd been stabbed. But they left her purse and jewelry behind, so it wasn't a robbery. Wasn't sexual assault, either." Her voice wobbles. "They attributed it to gang violence. Random wayward event. And the killer was never caught."
His heart splits in two, aching with sorrow for her, but he stays quiet, solemn, sensing she isn't done. She sucks in a shaky breath before bulldozing forward.
"I had to identify her body. Arrange the funeral. My dad was too distraught. He…he gave up. That first month, before I went back to school, I was constantly picking him up off the floor of some bar or dragging him out a holding cell and after a while, I couldn't do it anymore. Had to get out of there. But he won't talk to me. Won't call me back."
She looks up at him, and he's wrecked by the utter desolation in the dark spill of her pupils.
"It's like I've lost him, too."
This time, he's ready when she fractures apart, and he immediately wraps his arms around her as her face burrows into his neck, the two of them slotting together in a perfect, natural fit.
She anchors herself to him, arms tightly banding around his waist as she quakes with her grief. He cradles her skull, wishing he could wave a wand and magic away all her pain, wishing he had the power to absorb each cry of agony and protect her from further heartbreak.
He doesn't know how much time passes, but her tears eventually subside, and they stay entwined in their own little world, a calm eye in the middle of a hurricane.
"I can't go back. Can't face him," she confesses finally, almost inaudible.
He runs a hand over her back.
"If it helps, I never knew my father."
She disengages from his hold, "Did you just make this about you?"
"My story is obviously much more tragic."
She steps away with a phlegm-filled laugh and palms the tear tracks from her cheek. "Obviously."
He catches her elbow with the tips of his fingers. "You gonna be okay?" he asks, sincerely.
"For now." She nods, summoning a smile for him, diluted but warm. "Thanks for the shoulder. It is kind of excellent."
He smiles, brimming with gratitude, honored to have this hard-won piece of her. "Thank you for telling me," he murmurs, "I know that wasn't easy."
She huffs out a small, mournful laugh, her head bowing down and hands retreating into her jacket pockets.
"Yeah, well, I know I'm not the easiest person to get to know."
He reaches for her chin, tips it up with the curl of his index finger, and she inhales sharply, her eyes, a molten amber, drenched in despair and something like desire. He's pushing again, testing the limits of another boundary, touching her far too personally and intimately for just a travel partner, but there's no going back now.
"I don't care if I have to scratch and claw for every inch. You're worth knowing, Kate."
Her gaze flicks to his lips, and his heart pounds. Holy fuck. Does she want to—
But she's withdrawing before he can finish the thought, the moment lost, and he drops his hand as she takes cover behind her Aviators, sliding them back into place.
"Castle?" she ventures in the growing silence.
"Yeah?"
"Don't ever let anyone make you feel like you aren't enough," she says fiercely. "You're more than enough. Just as you are."
And maybe from someone else, he would've written it off as a false exaggeration, but coming from her, from the girl who doesn't mince words, who doesn't easily give, it means...everything.
Without warning, she tosses the car keys at him, and he catches them on pure instinct.
A smile, dazzling and radiant, blooms over her lips and her next words send him floating to the moon.
"And you're worth knowing, too."
xxx
A/N: WHEW! This chapter went through an eleventh hour rewrite (hence the delay), but I hope it was worth the wait.
Happy to hear you're enjoying the canon Easter Eggs and character cameos so far. Lots more to come!
Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.
Coming this Wednesday—Both Sides Now