Tit For Tat
He pats his pockets hurriedly.
Keycard. Phone.
Good. Okay.
Wallet. He needs his wallet.
…which is in his suit jacket. With Kate.
No matter. All the more reason to find her.
He's about to rush out when the landline by the couch trills loudly.
He lunges for it.
"Yes?"
A hesitant voice speaks on the other end, and all he hears is Kate, downstairs, and bar. He doesn't think twice.
"I'm coming. I'm coming."
He spots her dress first, a flow of purple silk, and relief pours through him.
But it's short-lived, his stomach swooping with nausea when he sees her slumped over the bar top.
"Kate," he calls out.
But, suddenly, she's blocked from view.
A young Black woman with corkscrew curls, big, brown doe-eyes, and a button nose steps forward, arms defiantly akimbo, gaze narrowed in inspection.
"You must be the immature, egotistical, self-centered jackass."
He falters. Processes this new interruption. Seems like Kate made a friend. The voice on the phone, he puts together.
"Guilty," he says, swallowing nervously. "You are—?"
"Pissed on my girl's behalf. But you can call me Lanie," she says imperiously.
"Rick Castle."
"Oh, I'm well aware," she says, unimpressed. "You really screwed the pooch, Writer Boy."
"I know," he says. Despondent. Utterly defenseless. He tries to peer around Lanie. "Is she okay? I need to talk to her."
"Is she okay?" Lanie huffs, blocking him. "You're lucky I was taking a smoke break from my cousin's wedding reception. She was practically in a catatonic shock when I found her in the stairwell. A complete mess. And after I cleaned her up a little, I thought she could use a drink…"
She glances back at Kate.
"And that plan worked a little too well," she says, remorseful. Her protective stance drops. "Decided it was time to call in reinforcements."
She reluctantly lets him by, and he charges toward Kate, a racehorse released from its starting gate.
"Kate?" he soothes, a hand curving over the bone of her shoulder.
No response.
"Sweetheart?" he tries.
She disgorges a low groan, her head lolling in the brace of her folded arms on the counter, but she doesn't budge. God, what did he do? He throws a worried look at Lanie.
"Can you help me move her?" he asks meekly.
With a conciliatory sigh, Lanie joins him and together, they string an overly intoxicated Kate between them. She's a limp rag doll nailed to the crucifix of their shoulders as they gradually make their way to the nearest elevator.
"Thank you. You don't know how much I appreciate this," he says sincerely. "And I'm sorry to take you away from your family celebration."
He thinks he sees a flash of approval, but Lanie swiftly covers it.
"Buttering me up isn't going to help your case."
"So she told you…"
"Everything."
"Everything? Even—?"
"Everything," she repeats. "Parents. You. The whole kit and caboodle."
An elevator car arrives. They board it, dragging Kate along.
"How long has she been like this?" he asks quietly.
"We started off with Cosmos. She ended with vodka shots. Three in a row," Lanie recites. "All of it hit her about ten minutes ago."
He nods, adding it up with her several glasses of wine from dinner. Not good. She's completely blotto.
He's a fucking idiot.
The elevator stops on the top floor with a slight jolt, causing Lanie's grip to slip. Kate falls off her and swings into him in an awkward drape.
Fuck it.
"Step back," he instructs. Lanie gives him a wide berth as he sweeps his arm under Kate's knees, and subsequently cradles her to his chest, bridal-style.
"Okay, that was kinda hot."
Kate moans, squirming a little. He murmurs nonsense, tightening his hold, his lips skimming her forehead as he exits, and she calms. He turns back toward Lanie for a moment.
"Thank you again. Really. If there's anything you need. Please don't hesitate to ask. Room—"
"505," Lanie nods. The elevator doors start to shut, but she darts an arm out. Keeps them open as she fixes him with a long, hard stare. Conflicted.
"You broke her heart. You know that, right?"
He's gonna puke. Biggest fucking idiot. He nods.
Satisfied, she lowers her arm. The doors begin to slide closed, and she leaves him with one last refrain.
"Don't fuck it up again."
She needs to know about her dad.
And she'll definitely strangle him if he doesn't tell her as soon as possible.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
He trepidatiously lowers Kate into the bathtub and sends a prayer off before he jerks the shower knob on. Frigid water sprays from the nozzle in a harsh stream.
A couple breathless heartbeats later, she's spluttering with awareness and shouting in protest.
Thank fucking God.
"Off!" She coughs. "Turn it off!"
He quickly abides. She's soaked to the bone, wet hair splattered over her face in clumps. She angrily pushes the dampened strands from her eyes.
"What. The. Fuck," she seethes, uncontrollable shivers wracking her frame.
"She found him. My mother. She found your dad," he rushes out, yanking a fresh towel from the rack and passing it to her.
Her wrath immediately siphons away, following the swirl of water down the drain.
"She did?" she asks with eager, tentative hope, clutching the plush cloth around her shoulders, teeth clattering.
Oh, God. He can't do it. He can't. He doesn't want to hurt her again. Doesn't want to be the source of any more pain.
But she must notice his grave expression because worry arrows across her features.
"What's wrong?"
He has to do it. He has to.
"Here."
He hands her one of his graphic tees, a pair of boxer shorts, and some folded up tube socks through the slit of the partially open bathroom door.
He promised to call his mother back as soon as she was warm and dry.
Off her dubious look, he adds, "Didn't think you wanted me digging through your stuff."
She stares at him for a long moment, her mouth a thin line, an internal battle waging war, before she huffs out a defeated sigh, grudgingly whisks the clothes from his grasp, and promptly shuts the door in his face.
Okay, yeah. Still mad. But she hasn't killed him yet. So that's something.
He'd edited a few of the details to soften the blow, but the news of her father still exploded like a bomb, shocking her into a stunned silence. And then, with the hot sludge of dread burning in his chest, he watched as she transformed into the hard and cold warrior he first met, arming herself with her shield, forged in steel, and donning her mask, cast in ice.
He strips his dress top and pants, hopping into pajama bottoms and aimlessly throwing on his next clean T-shirt.
He's in the middle of dialing his mother when Kate emerges from the bathroom, swallowed up by his Superman shirt. She's half-tucked the blue material into the rolled up plaid boxers that hit her mid-thigh, and her feet swim slightly in his too-big socks.
With damp hair finger-combed behind her ears, she's so small and forlorn, so young and innocent-looking, his heart lurches. He just wants to wrap her in his arms and never let go.
"Wonder Woman?" she prompts.
He glances down at his shirt. Oh, right.
"I celebrate all members of the Justice League," he says, puffing his chest proudly, not embarrassed in the slightest.
The barest hint of a smile limns her lips, but it instantly vanishes when his call finally connects and his mother's voice crackles through the speaker.
"Did you find her?"
"I'm here, I'm here," Kate says, stealing the phone from him. "Is he okay?"
"He's okay. He's stable now," his mother assures hastily.
"Really?" Kate asks, holding back tears. "Rick said something about surgery."
"They determined he didn't need it. His lung collapsed in the ER, and they weren't sure if it was a result of a puncture or not, but they were able to re-inflate it with a, uh, I think they called it a needle decompression. So no surgery."
Kate expels a strangled cry, her defenses ruptured, and he has to make an effort not to embrace her as she breaks down in relief.
"However, um, he does have three rib fractures, a broken nose, and a bruised kidney. No need to fret though. They're going to keep him under observation in the ICU for the rest of the night, monitor for internal bleeding."
"B-ut he's o-okay, he's a-alive?" Kate gets out in hiccuping sobs.
"Yes. And he's going to be just fine," his mother confirms warmly.
"Th-thank you," Kate manages to reply. "You." She gulps some air. "You saved his life. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."
"You pretty much saved my son's. We're square, kiddo."
Another sob tears from Kate, and a hot lump forms in his throat.
"Oh, sweetie, shhh. It's okay. It's going to be alright. Richard, are you there?"
He tentatively slips the phone from the trembling cage of Kate's fingers.
"Yes," he rasps.
"They're going to give me a rundown of his recovery treatment when the sun is up. Katherine? I want you to take care of yourself in the meantime, and we'll talk first thing in the morning. Okay, dear?"
But before Kate can respond, she's clapping a hand over her mouth and bolting to the bathroom. Soon followed by the sound of retching. His stomach curdles in sympathy, and he's trailing after her, phone in hand.
"Castle, get out," she says feebly, laying her cheek on the cool porcelain toilet lid.
He ignores her and presses down on the flush valve.
"Richard, take me off speaker."
He complies as he wets a cloth under the faucet.
"It's just me," he says into the receiver.
"What the hell happened?" his mother hisses.
He traps the cell between his jaw and shoulder as he crouches across from Kate and reaches over to tenderly wipe the leftover detritus dotting the corners of her mouth.
"Castle, please," Kate whimpers, weakly attempting to shove his hand away.
"I fucked up," he admits into the phone, while keeping his focus on her. "I wasn't entirely truthful about how much of my new character was really based on her, and I didn't ask her if it was okay to use her story before sending it to my publisher."
Kate's quiet and unmoving, her eyes huge and glassy, latching onto his every word.
"I forced her to open old wounds and violated her trust by putting her personal life on display without her permission. And it was incredibly wrong and selfish of me."
He risks brushing some hair from her forehead. She doesn't stop him. Her lids shutter closed, a soft exhale leaving her lips.
"Jesus, kiddo. Were you raised by wolves?"
"Just you, Mother."
She lets out a small huff. "I know I haven't always set the best example, but if you don't make things right with her, so help me, I will—"
"Send the flying monkeys after me. I know. Don't worry. I have every intention of atoning for my sins."
"Atta boy."
They exchange goodbyes and he snaps the phone shut and dumps it by the sink just as Kate hurls another round into the toilet bowl.
"I'm sorry, Kate. I'm so sorry."
He presents her with the damp cloth. She takes it, mopping her flushed face, and he triggers the flush valve again.
"Castle," she pleads and his heart constricts. Right. Not the time and place for apologies.
He departs.
Returning a moment later with some pillows and blankets. He dims the overhead light and settles down next to her.
"You're here. I'm here. Okay?"
She stares at him, seemingly perturbed by his determination (yeah, still mad), but after a long beat, she relents with a soft sigh of exasperation (maybe not so mad).
"Okay."
Actions always speak louder than words with Kate Beckett.
When she vomits the next time, he's there to hold her hair back.
And she lets him.
"Water," she scrapes out.
He scrambles to retrieve a glass from the counter, quickly filling it.
She drinks greedily, tipping her head back. Once it's void, she hands the glass back to him.
"Another?"
She shakes her head, dragging her forearm over her mouth. He deposits the container on the counter and she scoots back until her backside hits the wall tile, collapsing against it, disheveled and depleted. He imagines she must feel completely hollowed out.
"Kate?"
"Hmm?" she hums, lightly dozing.
He joins her, sitting on the floor by her side, his shoulder grazing hers.
"I'm gonna call Colleen later and tell her I'm scrapping the story. I know that's not enough. That the damage is already done. But I'll do anything to make it up to you. Buy you a pony. Whatever. Because I really do think you're extraordinary."
"And one of a kind?" she mumbles.
He discharges a small laugh of disbelief. She's hung up on that?
"I was just being nice when I said that to Gina. I didn't mean it. But if it makes you feel any better, I'll save all my pretty adjectives just for you."
She puffs a breath, a low, dismissive scoff.
"I'm serious. Anything you want," he implores. "And if you don't want to ever see me again after this, then you deserve to know, I'm very, very sorry."
"Okay, okay. Shhh," she shushes. "Too loud."
"Sorry," he whispers.
"M tired, Castle," she murmurs drowsily, her head drooping onto his shoulder, her body warm against his side.
"Okay," he says softly, "Go to sleep."
He carefully maneuvers her to lay on his lap, where he slides a pillow under her head and draws a blanket over her curled-up form. He coils one hand atop her shoulder, while the other gently strokes the sweat-slicked hair from her face.
He feels her relax into him, her body converting to liquid.
And finally.
She rests.
He awakens to a fresh chorus of purging.
Oh, Kate.
He slowly shifts and stretches his stiff limbs, bones cracking and popping.
"Should go to bed, Castle," she murmurs.
His eyes readjust to the light, and he notices her hair has dried into a riot of kinky curls. He's reminded of Medusa, a terrifying beauty.
"No road trip partner left behind," he protests.
She sighs in resignation, not arguing further, instead provoking another flush of the toilet.
"Time is it?" he asks, voice gravelly with sleep.
He hears the faucet run as she fills a second glass of water herself.
"Quarter 'til four," she says, reading from a clock on the counter.
"Ah, witching hour."
"Witching what?"
"The hour after midnight or between three and four a.m.," he elaborates. "That's when witches, demons, and ghosts are thought to appear and be at their most powerful. Also known as the devil's hour."
"Yeah, well, the devil has certainly made his presence known tonight, hasn't he?"
Yeah. He's certainly fallen from grace.
But rather than finding offense at the obvious jab, he smiles widely.
"Is that the sweet, dulcet tone of an insult, I hear? You must be feeling better."
"Shut up."
"And telling me to shut up? Oh, she is risen!" he says, voice booming dramatically.
"Yeah, with a terrible headache. Still too loud, Castle," she grumbles.
"Sorry," he says, quieter. "Would you like some aspirin?"
"That wouldn't be out of order," she states.
He scampers to his bedroom where he excavates the pills from a side pocket in his duffel that's become Kate Beckett's personal pharmacy. He also grabs the Tylenol for her ankle. Just in case.
But she shouldn't have anything on an empty stomach, he remembers. He flies into the living room, a bat out of hell, wrenches the mini fridge open, and snatches a sleeve of crackers. He's about to scuttle to the bathroom, hands full, when he almost crashes into Kate.
"Oh, here." He halts. Proffers the snack. "Should eat something first."
She accepts the sleeve, peeling back the plastic. Nibbles on a saltine. He realizes he's staring too intently when she quirks an eyebrow, and he rapidly deflects his gaze, where it lands on the coffee table, littered with the remnants of their spoiled evening and their fight comes rushing back to him.
"You're right, you know. I am a fraud with no imagination."
"Castle—"
"Please let me finish."
He sits on one end of the couch and she settles onto the other, drawing her knees to her chest, chewing her food.
"My bestseller? I basically cribbed the plot from an episode of One Life to Live. I made it my own, of course, but it's not like it was original or ground-breaking or anything special. I just got lucky."
"One million units sold isn't just luck," she defends.
(Wait, she's defending him? Maybe not still mad.)
"But when I met you, it's like everything just…clicked. I could suddenly see so many possibilities. The characters instantly became clear to me, and the story flowed out of me with a mind of its own. And I knew right away it was something special. Something new and real. So when my publisher started breathing down my neck for an outline, I didn't think it through…because I was just so excited to share something that I was finally proud of. Something that I actually believed in."
Her expression is inscrutable.
"But that's no excuse for betraying your confidence. And since you trusted me with things you've never told anybody else, I thought it only fair I share something with you I've never told anyone. You know, tit for tat."
She swallows.
"Not even—?"
"No. Not even my mother. Nor Kyra. Not a soul."
She quiets, a silent acquiescence of his offer.
And he begins telling the story of the day he got lost in Hollander's Woods at eleven years old.
He was staying in New Hampshire with a family of a classmate for President's Day weekend while his mother was touring with Pippin. Their home abutted a hundred acres of forest that he wasn't supposed to go into alone. But he couldn't resist the urge to explore, and he ended up walking for hours, deep into the woods.
When the light was fading from the sky and an evening chill was stirring, he saw a figure clad in black kneeling over something. After a moment, the figure left in a swish of cloak. He decided to investigate and that's when he saw her—a woman, with her throat slit and symbols carved into her forehead and cheeks.
"It was the first dead body I'd ever seen. I touched her arm, and I remember thinking how cold it was."
And the next thing he knew, he's being thrown into the trunk of a tree and a knife was being held to his throat. The figure in black had returned and he was wearing a mask, a false face of porcelain white with a big, black cross slashing through it.
"He threatened to kill me if I told anyone what I'd seen, and then, miraculously, he let me go. I ran as far and as fast as I could until my lungs gave out."
"Why do you think he let you live?" she asks breathlessly.
"I don't know. I waited until I got back to the city to call the police. From a payphone. I was too scared to let them know who I was."
"And who was the girl?" she presses.
"That's just the thing. They searched the woods with cadaver dogs. They never found a body."
"So you never figured out who she was?" she asks, astonished.
"I checked local papers. No one in the area had been reported missing. When I got older, I checked with missing persons, even the FBI database, for anyone matching her description, or any crimes involving those symbols or that mask, but there was nothing. It's like it never happened.
And after a while I just…I started to wonder if it had. That day in the woods, Kate, that's why I do what I do. I'm driven to figure out the story because—I could never figure out that one."
She's quiet for a long time.
He waits.
"You're not just yanking my chain, right? That actually happened, yeah?"
He nods whole-heartedly.
"I know you have no reason to trust me, that it's my job to make up stories, but I swear it's true. On my life. On my mother's."
She sizes him up, still doubtful.
"Swear on my mother's grave."
He puts a hand over his heart, like he's giving the pledge of allegiance.
"I swear on your mother's grave," he says solemnly, hoping with every fiber of his being that she can see the truth in him.
She must because next thing he knows, she's leaning down and picking something up off the floor. His Moleskine, he realizes. He recoils slightly as she holds the cursed item out to him.
"Tell me their story."
He stares at it, at her, skeptical, his heart, an unsteady colt stumbling with its first steps.
"Seriously?"
She nods. Plants the notebook in front of him on the couch cushion. Once a dark smudge of doom. Now, a beacon of hope. Definitely not still mad.
"Tell me why you believe in June Winter and Chase Knight."
An assault of water shocks him into consciousness.
"What the—?"
Kate stands in front of him holding an empty glass, smirking. He must've fallen asleep on the couch.
"It's almost 10 a.m., Princess Diana. And breakfast is here."
He wipes a hand over his face. Airs out his dampened Wonder Woman shirt.
"Suppose I deserved that."
"Tit for tat," she says cheekily.
He chuckles.
"Hell of a wake up call."
"Speaking of, I just spoke with your mother. She says my dad is still sleeping, but she's gonna give us a ring as soon as he comes round."
"How's he doing?"
"His vitals are steady, so they're transferring him out of the ICU."
"That's stupendous."
"Stupendous?" She laughs.
(She's laughing!)
"Just like this breakfast spread. You really outdid yourself with the room service, huh?"
The coffee table has been cleared and tricked out with a huge array of toast, bacon, biscuits, fresh fruit, eggs, what have you. The whole nine yards.
This must be what forgiveness from Kate Beckett looks like.
"And you got my favorite order? How'd you know?"
He picks up the plate of chocolate chip pancakes topped with a tower of whipped cream.
She proceeds to bite her lip in that infuriating way that makes his heart skip a beat.
"You're not the only one with observation skills, you know."
He's halfway through demolishing his flapjacks when he computes that she's showered and dressed for the day. And her saddlebag is neatly packed, sitting outside her bedroom door.
And it suddenly dawns on him what this breakfast is.
It's not just forgiveness.
It's also goodbye.
"You're leaving," he says, his fork clinking as he drops it.
She unveils a melancholy smile.
"Maurice says there's a flight to JFK at noon. Airport's about a half hour drive from here."
"What about your bike?"
"I, uh, was gonna sell her. The mechanic expressed interest."
"But you worked so hard for her."
Everything feels like it's slipping through his fingers.
"It's for the best. My dad hasn't worked in months and someone's going to have to pay the medical bills. And don't you dare offer," she says, raising a warning finger. "You and your mom have already done so much for me. And I will strangle you if you try something, okay?"
"Okay," he says, numb. She's really leaving. But— "Wait. You shouldn't have to fly alone. Let me come with you."
"You haven't finished Route 66 yet. Or the next Great American novel. And you've got your pop-up signing in Chicago."
"It's no fun finishing without you and my signing is in eight days. I could fly back anytime. Or have them move it to New York. Please. I'm not ready for this to be over."
He knows he must sound pathetic. But he doesn't care. This can't be the end of the road.
It just can't be.
She deliberates his words, her face enigmatic.
"I need to focus on my dad right now," she says eventually and his heart sinks. No, no, no. "But I have something for you." She reaches for an item on the end table. "Something to remember me by."
As if he could ever forget her.
And then, she's passing him his Moleskine, a red bow attached to the cover.
He looks at her, confused.
"Don't scrap it. She's not just me. She's part you, too. And I believe in their story. I can't wait to see how it ends."
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
"You're serious."
Oh, he could kiss her. On her lips, eyes, nose. Anywhere he can reach to express his profound gratitude.
Because she's just given him the best gift in the whole world. And it's not just her permission to tell their story. No. It's the gift of Kate Beckett believing in something. Believing in their story.
He really is lucky.
And he's saved in the nick of time from doing something stupid when his cell rings.
"Dad?" she ventures cautiously, her breath caught in her lungs.
"Hey, sweetheart," he says, voice clear and solid. Not slow or slurring.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're okay," she exhales. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Yeah, well, you should see the other guy."
"Dad!" she choke-laughs in disbelief. He hasn't been this lucid since…well, since before. It's so good to hear his voice, full of warmth and laughter instead of grief and bitterness. A balm to her soul.
"How're you feeling?"
"They've got me on the good stuff. Don't feel much of anything."
"God, Dad. You could've died."
"Nothing says rock bottom like almost dying, eh, Katie girl? Especially when it takes a Broadway legend telling you to get your head out of your ass to finally call your own daughter back."
"I'm just happy someone got through to you," she says delicately, but there's accusation in it, still too much hurt, too much pain tangled inside her. Months spent unmoored, lost all alone, no light at the end of the tunnel, no father to be seen.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm sorry I haven't been around. That I made you take care of me," he croaks. "Martha's been kind enough to remind me that I'm not the only one going through this."
"She's a wise woman," Kate replies diplomatically. A fierce affection for the actress burns bright in her.
"I hear you're traveling with her son."
"Yeah, we ran into each other on Route 66."
She glances at the writer, who's pretending to eat his breakfast. He quickly stuffs a bite into his mouth, as if she didn't just catch him eavesdropping.
"Ah, the Main Street of America. Sounds like quite the adventure."
"It has been," she says, "But I'm gonna be on the first flight out. Should be home by tonight."
"No, don't do that."
"What?"
Castle perks up, a curious meerkat popping out of its hole. She turns away.
"Don't come, Katie. I don't want you to see me like this."
"Dad," she chides.
"I'm serious. I made you take care of me and I shouldn't have let you. I let you leave and I never returned your calls. I'm the parent. I'm supposed to be the one taking care of you. So please. Don't come. Not right now. You don't deserve to be put through this."
"You wouldn't be putting me through anything. We're family. We're supposed to be there for each other."
"And I think the best way for us to be a family again is if I do this next part on my own. At least until I can stand up straight, okay?"
"Dad," she laments. How can he do this? She almost lost him. She needs to see him. Needs to see for herself that he's actually okay.
"There is something you can do for me," he says.
"Yeah?"
"Buy yourself a cell phone. Your mother and I were going to take you to get one as a surprise before you went back to school, but…" He trails off. They both know how that sentence ends.
"Buy a cell phone. That's what you want me to do?"
"Use your emergency credit card. I want to know how you're doing. I want to be able to get in touch anytime. Hear about all the fun you're having."
And maybe she won't have the assurance of seeing him in person right away, but she remembers when the only thing she wished for for so long was just a call back from her dad. Just to hear the sound of his voice.
Speaking with him now has the elephant on her chest ascending to its feet and walking off, tail swinging merrily in retreat.
So maybe it can be enough. Enough for now.
But she needs to get one other thing off her chest.
"Okay, I'll get a phone. But Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I quit Stanford."
"You—uh. Okay. Um…is that what you really want?"
"I don't know what I want," she says, "That's why I couldn't stay."
He's silent for a beat. "I understand."
"You're not mad or disappointed?"
"I'm not sure it's my place right now. And I just want you to be happy, sweetheart."
"Are you really gonna be okay, Dad? Who's gonna help you with your recovery?"
"My buddy Craig."
"Fishing buddy Craig?"
"He's been trying to sober me up for ages and I'll hire a caretaker, if necessary. Okay?"
She huffs. "If that's what you want."
"It is," he says, "Why don't you let me talk to the boy?"
Another huff. She turns back to the writer. Sticks the phone out to him.
"He wants to talk to you."
"Me? What for?"
"Just—here."
She shoves it at him, and he has no choice but to take it.
"Hello, um, Sir?" he ventures, swallowing nervously, and she smiles smugly, finding a perverse pleasure in seeing Richard Castle squirm. Jim Beckett used to be the father all the boys feared. She remembers her date to Homecoming trembling in terror when she came down the stairs, her dad smiling oh so innocently.
"Oh, yeah. I'm familiar with her ass-kicking abilities," the writer says.
Ha.
"Uh huh. If she'll have me. Yes. Of course. You have my word. No funny business."
She swipes the phone back before things can get any worse.
"Bye, Dad. Talk soon. Love you."
She hangs up after his, "Talk soon. Love you, too."
Her heart brims with hope.
The writer is grinning from ear to ear.
"Don't say it."
"What?" he says innocently.
"This isn't some twist of fate. Or destiny. Or whatever else you want to call it."
He sips some orange juice, oh so nonchalant, and she wrestles the familiar urge to strangle him or kiss him.
"You know what else they call Route 66?"
"What?" she sighs.
"The Mother Road."
"Okay, now you are yanking my chain."
"I'm not kidding! Haven't you read The Grapes of Wrath? Anointed by John Steinbeck himself."
She narrows her gaze, a lioness zeroing in on its prey.
"Are you seriously implying my mother sent you to me?"
"Who better than an Alexander who might save your life?"
"Wow," she says flatly. Scoffs. "Just when I thought your head couldn't get any bigger."
"Look, you may not believe in fate or destiny or things bigger than yourself. But I think the universe brought us together and we crossed on these roads for a reason. Because we're supposed to go on the kind of grand adventure they write Great American novels about," he says adamantly. "You don't want to let the universe down, do you?"
His eyebrows wiggle in challenge, a gauntlet thrown.
Her hands straddle her hips in consternation. God, he was infuriating.
"You're not going to go away no matter what I do, are you?"
"I respect the universe," he says confidently. "And your mother."
She groans.
"C'mon, you can't have a good road trip story solo. It's against literary law. Take your classic road trip narratives. What would Smokey be without the Bandit? Thelma without Louise?"
"Are you suggesting we drive bootleg beer across state lines or get chased off a cliff?"
"You know what I mean. But I'm not going to force you into this if it's not what you want. You know, free will and all that."
"So you believe in free will and fate?"
"They're not mutually exclusive."
"Oh, I cannot wait to hear this," she deadpans, crossing her arms. "Do tell."
"Take Batman for example."
"A comic book character? That's where you're going with this?"
"Think about it," he urges. "His parents were killed. And he could've just let it go. Could've backed down and never found out who did it. Hell, he could've just sat at home, twiddling his thumbs, enjoying his millions, but instead, he decided to devote himself to a life of fighting crime. Chose his fate of becoming the world's greatest detective. Not to mention, the guy with the coolest gadgets."
"Thought that was James Bond," she snarks.
"Point is," he steams on, "Fate can be thrust upon you, but you don't have to embrace it. You can even run from it. But there's always a choice, see? And that's where free will comes in," he finishes triumphantly.
She processes his argument, gears steadily rotating together, her arms slowly uncrossing.
"That…actually makes sense."
"Faced with Richard Castle's unimpeachable logic, Kate Beckett's head exploded," he narrates.
She shoots him a scornful look, unamused.
"What about expenses?" she redirects.
"What about them?
"If we're going to do this, I don't feel comfortable with you trying to pay for everything. We split the cost. Fifty-fifty."
"Ninety-ten."
"You're out of your mind!" she exclaims.
"Please. I have so much money burning a hole in my pocket. And I know you're not some woeful Dickensian orphan or a woman without a dowry in a Jane Austen novel, but it would mean a lot to me if I could be your benefactor every once in a while. You know, let me get some meals and motels. That's it."
"First of all, what makes you think I don't have a dowry? Secondly, I don't want you thinking I'm using you. Wouldn't want to take advantage."
"You can take advantage of me anytime, Motorcycle Girl."
"Castle."
"I know you wouldn't use me like that. Your morals are beyond reproach."
She rolls her eyes. Then, a moment of consideration.
"How about this? You cover motels. I'll cover meals. And we figure out gas together."
"Deal."
He extends a hand toward her.
"What, no pinky?"
"They haven't worked very well for us, have they? And I'd say we've graduated from such playground promises. Adults shake hands."
An offer of a fresh start.
A new beginning.
She doesn't hesitate as she grasps the clean slate.
"Where to next, Mr. Darcy?"