But now, it's just another show
And you leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away
Her transmission's shot.
They have to take the whole bike apart in order to replace it.
And it's going to take at least a day. Minimum 24 hours.
...the same amount of time the writer plans on proving he's a trustworthy travel partner. As if he hasn't already proven himself ten times over. He's not the issue. Not really.
She watches him lead the mechanic on a tour of his beat-up Mustang, pointing out various scratches and dents, rips in the upholstery and other things like the broken seat spring and fritzed-out tape deck.
It scares the shit out of her, how exposed he makes her feel, how easily he scales the walls she's erected, but his genuine willingness to shoulder her burdens, to carry the weight with her, soothes the ragged edges of her heart, knowing she's no longer alone.
She's spent the last six months abandoned by friends and family, drowning in everything, letting it suffocate her. All her peers had known she'd suffered a death in the family but hadn't known the true extent of it. He's the first person she's told the whole story to, and now, she's docked in a safe harbor, dry land within reach, finally able to breathe.
For now.
Problem is, she's beginning to suspect the writer has the power to completely take her apart and leave her broken beyond repair, heart totally shot.
Is it really worth the risk to continue this "partnership"? What if the cursed Midas Touch of her grief turns everything into a flaming pile of crap?
Worse…what if he's able to convince her to join him all the way back home?
She ran away for a reason. And she's nowhere near ready to confront her father after all this time.
Vivien's words from earlier echo in her head.
Bug, please. Help him.
Nothing but a desperate plea from a deranged woman.
Right?
But it nags at her, the possibility…the possibility of her mother reaching out to her. Because if it really was her mom, if she really had something important to tell her, then why did she choose to send that message? Why not pass along the name of her killer? Why use her one chance to communicate just to waste it on a cryptic request?
But it's actually not that cryptic at all, is it? She's been trying to deny it, trying to ignore the implication of what it could mean because she's afraid of the answer. Because if she's right, and she understands the message correctly, then it means her dad is in trouble.
Her dad needs help.
But she's over two thousand miles away. What is she supposed to do? What if she can't save him? God, what if…she's too late and he's already lying somewhere dead in a ditch?
A tidal wave of panic crashes over her, and she's drowning again, choking for air. Her knees buckle and the ground disappears and she falls like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
"Kate?" She hears faintly, blood pumping loudly in her ears, her whole world hazy and unfocused.
The writer is by her side in seconds, his familiar warmth heating up the cold space around her.
"Kate?" he urges. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
She can't speak. Can't move, her arms and legs, lead weights. What if she's lost them both? What if she's alone forever?
"Kate? I need you to talk to me. Please talk to me, sweetheart."
What did he just call her? She ignites with fiery anger, movement returning to her limbs and breath to her lungs, and she's pushing up with her elbows, hackles raised.
"I am not your sweetheart," she seethes.
Aggravatingly, he grins, and says, victorious, "There she is."
She's fit to explode. "Castle! You can't just—"
"You know," he interrupts, "It's not fair that you get to do the last name thing when I still don't know yours."
It's a distraction tactic. Obviously. And she hates that he knows which buttons to press, how to drive her crazy…how to snap her out of a down spiral. Hates that he's looking at her like she's his only concern. But her normal defenses are ineffectual against him, and she unravels, unable to stop giving him another piece of herself.
"Beckett," she replies on a defeated sigh.
"Beckett," he repeats. "Kate Beckett," he sounds out. "Oo, kind of like Kate Beckinsale. And you're both sexy brunettes. She could totally play you in a movie."
She rolls her eyes as she gets to her feet, brushing dirt from her jacket. "What movie would that be?"
"Maybe one based on the book I'm writing about you," he posits.
She stills.
"You're doing what now?"
He backtracks, fumbling. "Well, uh, it's hardly anything. Just an idea for a character. Loosely inspired by you. Very loosely."
"Well, consider it hardly nothing because I don't remember giving you permission to write about me in any official capacity," she says, stepping close to him, storming with fury.
"Loosely inspired by. Not about. So I don't really need your permission to do anything."
"It would be the courteous thing to do," she huffs.
"Haven't you learned by now, Beckett? I'm a no-good rapscallion," he says, far too smugly.
God, he is so—ugh! The air crackles with an electric energy and she's torn between wanting to strangle him and kiss him. But neither are a viable option.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
And then she remembers why they're fighting in the first place.
"Can I borrow your cell phone?"
He blinks, thrown by the non-sequitur.
"Uh, yeah. Sure." He retrieves it from his jean pocket and hands the clamshell device to her, nervous.
She flips it open and rapidly inputs a number she's had memorized since she was five.
When the answering machine picks up and it's her mother's voice, soft and soothing and full of laughter, a hard lump clogs her throat and her vision swims. Shit. Not now. She can't lose it in front of him. Not again.
She turns away, breathing past the elephant sitting on her chest.
"Dad? It's me. I, um, know it's been a while…just wanted to check in. Hope you're doing alright. Please call me when you get this. Number is, uh—" she throws an expectant look at the writer over her shoulder and he rattles off his cell number. She repeats it into the receiver. "Yeah, so that's it. Bye."
She hangs up, shaking slightly.
"When's the last time you spoke?" Castle asks from behind her, gentle and prodding but maintaining his distance.
"Not since I left," she answers truthfully, hoping he can't hear the tremble in her voice.
She can feel him connecting the dots and deducing why she chose to call now, can feel his gaze burning a hole in her back, but she can't do this right now. It's too much. He's too much.
"Can I just get a minute alone, please?" she asks quietly.
"Of course. I'll be right over here if you need me," he says.
It ruins her, his endless patience, kindness, and understanding unlike anything she's experienced. He's ruining her. And she has half a mind to pull him close and sink into his strong embrace, but she can't. She won't. It's not right for her to keep leaning on him for support.
Not if she's planning on leaving.
"You my fairy godmother all of a sudden?"
He insists on paying for the overly lavish 4-star casino hotel he's selected for their overnight stay. She's perfectly content with The El Rey Court, a legendary Route 66 roadside motel that includes eighty-six unique rooms and suites. Each individually decorated. Besides, wasn't he the one who wanted to have an authentic Route 66 experience?
"They call New Mexico the Land of Enchantment. And you deserve some enchantment, Punkerella."
"You're totally insane if you think I'm letting you pay," she rebuffs, "And don't ever call me that again."
"If this is our last day together, don't you think we should celebrate in style? C'mon, Beckett. Please let me do this for you. Please," he begs, hands beneath his chin in prayer.
It shouldn't elicit any sort of reaction, but somehow, being addressed by her last name sends a small thrill through her, her veins buzzing with the intimate familiarity of it.
God-fucking-damnit.
Castle is hanging on to every word that spills from their driver's mouth.
The writer had left his Mustang back at the shop with her bike and hired a private town car to ferry them around until their 4pm check-in. She was too bone-weary and loopy-headed to put up a fight for something more reasonable like a cab, probably something to do with being emotionally and physically drained from disarming a gunman, breaking down about her mom, and having a panic attack about her dad all before noon.
Gus, a Santa Fe local, regales them with the sordid history of the town, describing in gory detail how the Spanish Conquistadors subjugated the Pueblo Indians of the region by killing them and driving them out of their homeland against their will.
"That's terrible," she comments.
"But now this city celebrates the cultural heritage of its indigenous roots and artists come from all over just to be close to its rich history," Gus counters.
"It's true," Castle says, "George R. R. Martin is in residency here."
"The Game of Thrones guy?" she asks.
"Didn't peg you for a fantasy-genre kind of gal."
"And what kind of gal do you peg me for exactly?" she asks in an affected tone, something akin to a Transatlantic accent, and she enjoys the way his eyebrows skyrocket in surprise at her playful tease.
But she immediately regrets the momentary lapse in judgment when his eyes darken with a swirl of arousal and he responds in a low husk that sends an involuntary shiver down her spine, "The kind who isn't afraid of a challenge."
He's not talking about books anymore. Shit.
"The kind…" His gaze rakes over her, hot and scorching, and oh, fuck. No. They can't be doing this, toeing over the unspoken line they've drawn between them, and he must see the alarm in her eyes because he finishes his sentence with no trace of leer left in his voice, "...of gal that reads the likes of Tolstoy or Dostoevsky."
She radiates with relief. No line-crossing today.
"Actually, I prefer Proust," she says, thinking of a quote from the French novelist…the people we love turn to ashes when we possess them. That's why she can't be his travel partner.
She'll turn him into ashes.
"They're supposed to have the best guacamole," he says, perusing the menu at a Oaxacan restaurant that sits on the edge of Santa Fe's downtown Historic District, a bustling center of commerce.
It's populated by adobe-style buildings, each one looking like it's been shaped from a cubic mound of sand. The early afternoon sun bleeds into the golds and tans of the walls as a light breeze ruffles over them.
"How can you eat?" she asks.
"How can you not? We've had a very taxing morning."
"Yeah," she huffs bitterly. "I could use a drink."
The writer flashes her a winning smile.
"They serve piña coladas."
After a round of drinks and appetizers, they still have a couple hours to kill, so they drift down the main street and into a local art market set up in the plaza. Loose, sated, and renewed, she stops in front of a booth, admiring the hand-woven and intricately-beaded dream-catchers dangling on display.
"You like that one?" the writer asks, nodding at a piece she's skimming with her fingertips.
"Turquoise was my mom's favorite color. She said it complements everything," she lets slip, unbidden. And miraculously, there's no knot in her chest or a swarm of tears as she shares this small part of her mom with him. It feels kind of liberating to share something that doesn't have anything to do with her death.
A Native American woman lifts the piece she has her eye on. "The good dreams pass through the center hole to the sleeping person. And the bad dreams are trapped in the web where they perish in the light of dawn."
"Perish in the light of dawn? That sounds perfect," the writer says. "Can I get two?"
Her heart stumbles.
"Cas—"
"Don't you think you're entitled to a good night's sleep?" he interjects, handing the woman more than a few twenties.
"They don't actually work," she protests.
"Not if you don't believe," the writer quips.
"Skeptic, remember?"
"Then I'll believe enough for the both of us," he says, taking his newly-bagged purchase from the artist with a friendly grin.
And fuck, that almost makes her lose it right there.
Thankfully, she's deterred by the loud march of the Star Wars theme song suddenly parading through the air. His cell ringtone, she realizes and then, she's swamped with brittle hope. Could it be—? He scrambles to answer.
"Hello?"
Her shoulders slump and hot disappointment rushes through her at the slight shake of his head. Not her dad.
"Calling me daily now, Mother? This is new," he says and she aches profoundly. What she wouldn't give for a call from her mom.
He laughs at her intelligible response.
"Yes, you're allowed to be doting," he exasperates lovingly. She can't stomach it.
She signals to him that she's going to check out some other vendors, so he can talk in private. (And so she can reconcile her irrational bout of jealousy).
He puts a hand over the phone receiver. "No running?" he murmurs.
"No running," she assures him.
Not until the clock strikes noon tomorrow.
She's thumbing through a collection of vinyl records when he startles her with his silky voice in her ear, his chest warming her back.
"My mother wants to talk to you."
She spins, heart ricocheting in her ribcage. "Me? What for?"
"Just—here," he orders, shoving his cell at her and she has no choice but to take it.
"Um, hello?" she asks anxiously.
"Is my son bothering you?"
She relaxes slightly and smiles.
"As a matter of fact, he is."
The writer shoots her a questioning look. She waves him away, and he dutifully retreats, giving her space.
"He means well," his mother explains.
"That's debatable," Kate jokes.
Martha chuckles. "You seem to have a good effect on him anyhow. He's usually much more despondent after a break-up."
She quiets, not sure how to respond, this whole conversation surreal. "You wanted to speak with me?"
"Yes. Richard told me about your father. How you're unable to reach him and that you're worried he might be in trouble. Would you like me to track him down?"
Oh.
Oh, wow.
Hot tears press behind her eyes and she's stupidly grateful for her sunglasses.
"He shouldn't have told you that."
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, kiddo. I want to help if you'll let me."
"I can't ask you to do that. You don't even know me. I…I'm no one."
"My son doesn't talk about you like you're no one. And from what I've heard, you practically saved his life. I'm in your debt."
Well, shit. She doesn't know how to process the maelstrom of emotions whirling through her.
"I didn't—Ms. Rodgers…I—"
"Martha. Please call me Martha."
"Martha, I can't ask that of you. It's too much."
"Oh, please. My own father tried to drown his demons in the bottle, so I know what it's like. And I hate to think you're going through the same thing without any support."
Who are these people? So caring and empathetic and giving. It's overwhelming, this easy kindness from a virtual stranger.
"Are you sure you're okay with this? You really don't have to."
"Richard said you were stubborn," Martha says with a smile in her voice. "Darling, I wouldn't offer to, if I wasn't okay with it."
"Um, okay," she says, the elder woman's warm maternalism cracking her open and crumbling her resolve.
She inhales a shaky breath and proceeds to tell the actress her home address (and where they keep their hidden key), her dad's usual bar haunts, and the possible precincts that might be holding him. "Should be under James Beckett, but he goes by Jim."
"Anything else?"
"No, that's it. Thank you. You don't know how much I appreciate this. And Martha?"
"Yes, dear?"
"You can call me Katherine." It feels like the right thing to say to her, the only thing she has to give, for this woman who's going out on a limb for her.
"Oh, that's lovely. Makes me think of Katharine Hepburn."
"My middle name is Houghton like hers, actually. My mom was a fan," she reveals and what was with this family, drawing information from her that she's never freely given before?
"A woman with taste," Martha says.
"She was a fan of you, too," Kate says quietly.
"Oh, Katherine. I wish I could've met her."
"Me, too," she says, wistful.
"I can see why Richard is so taken by you."
"Oh, um…"
"Keep him out of trouble for me, will you?"
"I'll try my best."
"Take care, Katherine."
"Take care," she echoes, flipping the phone shut, the elephant on her chest, a few pounds lighter.
She searches for the writer in the crowd and spots him a couple booths down, where an art instructor teaches him and a group of kids how to sketch the nearby backdrop of mountains with charcoal. Though he seems to be otherwise engaged in a side squabble with his seat neighbor, a seven or eight year old by the looks of it.
"Picking fights with preschoolers?" she murmurs into his ear, revenge for earlier. The writer jumps slightly, turning toward her, and it takes everything in her not to bust out laughing at the smudges of charcoal handprints lining his cheeks and forehead.
"He started it!" he exclaims, pointing at the young boy, whose face is equally smeared.
She chuckles, tugging him away, her arm looping around his.
"C'mon, Big Guy, let's get you cleaned up."
"This isn't over, Jason," Castle cries out, snatching his sketch. The young boy sticks his tongue out.
A laugh escapes her.
"This is for you," he says as they walk off, presenting her with his drawing. Beneath the mountain range, he's added a road with an outline of his Mustang and her Softail, each with their own little figure, side-by-side, heading toward a sun on the horizon.
Oh.
Oh, wow.
They're riding off into the sunset.
Together.
She forgets how to breathe.
"It's not my best work," he supplies when she doesn't say anything, "Could've done a better job on the shading if it wasn't for little Blitzkrieg back there."
"No, it's good," she says, overcome. "Really good. I love it." She carefully folds it and tucks it into the bag with their dream-catchers.
"Yeah?"
She doesn't have an adequate reply for him. Words aren't enough to describe the flood of gratitude and affection in her, for this, for…everything. She can't contain the surge of emotion anymore, so she rises on her toes and presses her lips to his jawline in a firm but lingering kiss, hoping he can feel it, how much it means to her.
He stares at her, his deep blue eyes shining brightly, wonderstruck.
"You, uh, got something," he says, motioning toward her chin, where some of the charcoal has transferred over.
She raises a hand to wipe at it, but he intercepts.
"Let me fix it," he murmurs.
He erases the dark stain from her skin with the gentle stroke of his thumb.
And she lets him.
Because maybe he has the power to completely take her apart, but maybe (just maybe), he also has the power to put her back together.
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way that you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way
xxx
A/N: Funny story...I broke my collarbone while playing recreational soccer last week, so I'm a little incapacitated and typing's been difficult (to say the least). I still plan on updating this story, but instead of posting twice a week, I'll be scaling back to once a week, probably every Sunday or Monday.
As always, would love to hear from you all!
Next chapter (one of my favorites)—Femme Fatale