True Love's Kiss
Her shooting instructor Dana had told her the best way to always hit your mark was to clear your mind and stay calm.
It annoyed the hell out of her at the time because she found it impossible to do either of those things when everything she cared about was gone. No. Each shot she'd discharged had been a furious ejection of her unbridled anger.
But she's not just her grief anymore.
So she tries to cast away any distracting thoughts and summon an inner calm to pacify the rapid beat of her nervous pulse as her forefinger hovers over the trigger of her six-shooter.
They'd relocated from The Camelot to a disused horse paddock outside—a fenced-in circle that's coincidentally ten paces in width and length. The apple-target is positioned on one end, she and Merlin on the other, while the mob of onlookers are safely stationed out of the strike zone.
They were permitted a couple practice rounds and then they sent off their first official shots. Both of them successfully sent slugs whizzing through the round piece of produce in exploding precision.
But Merlin's second shot was too low, his bullet instead burrowing heavily into the thick wooden post of knotted pine that was acting as a pedestal for their fruit-bullseye.
Which means she's one shot away from clinching her get-out-of-marriage-jail-free card.
Her palm sweats and her arm aches.
She's been setting her aim for the past few minutes, trying to follow Dana's instruction and shut out the calamity, but it's to no avail. The fear of failure eats at her, clouding her mind and putting her on edge.
Until she hears the writer call out from behind her.
"Take it easy. You've got this," he says in confident reassurance. "You've got this, Kate."
She doesn't know when he abandoned his flock of admirers on the sidelines to come pose as her back-up, but his voice eases something in her, lulling her shaky nerves. His words, instilling her with courage. His blind faith, giving her strength.
She sucks in a breath, squints one eye shut, steadies her grip…
And takes her shot.
He leaps over the barrier the second her bullet splits the meat of the apple open, seed and stem and bits of core spewing wide.
"Bam, said the Lady!" he shouts in jubilation as his arms surround her in a fierce, celebratory hug, ignoring the slight pinch of skin around his stitches.
She's laughing and squeezing him back and his joy is so great, he's lifting her off the ground and spinning her in a circle.
"Castle!" she squeals. "Put me down!"
He obeys, his smile bigger than his face as he smacks a kiss to her cheek, proclaiming, "I knew you could do it!"
She huffs a self-deprecating laugh. Then, she bites her lip bashfully. "Thank you…for having my back."
He glows with warmth.
"Always."
He doesn't have time to decode the kaleidoscopic fragmentation of green, brown, and gold in her eyes before the masses are pouring in around them and whisking her away.
Merlin taps his pint of beer with his hook to quiet the boisterous crowd.
"Hear ye, hear ye!" he bellows and the room eventually cascades into silence. "Now," he starts once everyone settles. "Accordin' to our code of conduct, Ms. Beckett here is entitled to an honorary knighthood. Which means she can pick a new name and we'll perform our sacred ritual to properly induct her into the Round Table."
The spectators stamp their feet in approval.
"Oh, that's not necessary. I'd just like the tape, please," she says from her seat at the bar.
"You fixin' on insultin' me further?"
"No, uh—" she says, at a loss. "Actually, do you mind if I just consult with my associates first?"
"By all means," he says in a sweeping gesture. "But clock's tickin', darlin'."
She quickly huddles with the writer, Bea, and some of the Ladies.
"Are you seriously considering turning down a knighthood?" Castle asks in disbelief.
"I really just wanna get back on the road," she argues.
"Court's are closed for the day. We won't be able to process your annulment until the morning anyway," the writer rebuts.
She sighs.
"C'mon, do it for me. Please," he pleads.
"For you?"
"Research purposes. I need to find out about this sacred ritual."
"They pour beer over your head," Bea provides wryly.
"In that case, I definitely think you should do it. That sounds awesome."
"We have very different ideas of awesome," Kate deadpans.
"They've never let a girl in before. Kind of a big deal," Lenora pipes in.
"Never?" Kate asks.
"Nothin' chivalrous 'bout excludin' people on account of their gender, if you ask me," Cecilia harrumphs.
Kate senses she's resurrected an old strife for the Tooley Sisters. But maybe she can help…give them their reckoning. After all, these women technically fought on her behalf without even knowing her.
She breaks from the huddle and slides from her barstool to stand before Merlin in steely-eyed determination.
"I'll accept your knighthood. On one condition."
"This oughta be good," Merlin chuckles, crossing his arms. "What'll it be?"
"You open the Round Table up to any and all women who wish to join."
A surprised murmur rumbles around the room. Merlin shifts on his feet, regarding her.
"They're entitled to, according to your code of conduct. And it's the honorable thing to do. Or is chivalry really dead?" she challenges.
A cat-like smirk curls at Merlin's lips.
"Mind if I consult with my associates?" he asks.
"By all means," she says. And then, crossing her arms, "But the clock's ticking, sonny boy."
Merlin huddles with his Knights. After what seems like a heated debate, he breaks from them and faces her with an inscrutable expression.
"Well, well, well, you've sure got gumption, Ms. Beckett," Merlin says. He waits a long beat. "But that's exactly the kind of quality we look for in a Knight."
"Does that mean—?" She uncrosses her arms.
He grins hugely.
"Looks like the Round Table is turnin' over a new leaf."
Merlin taps her right shoulder and then her left with the tip of a sword blade as she kneels in front of him, her head bowed.
"We welcome thee, Dame Knight Galahad."
Castle had picked it. Said Galahad had been the only knight worthy enough to find the Holy Grail. And while a videotape of her getting drunk-married was hardly the Holy Grail, she hadn't wanted to waste more time arguing. If Castle liked it, that was good enough for her.
"Do you promise to uphold your title with honor, honesty, valor, and loyalty?"
God, this was absolutely ridiculous. How the hell did she get here?
"I promise," she says, miraculously straight-faced.
"Sir Percival?"
Sir Leslie-Percival (who Castle said he nicknamed Smee) proceeds to dump two pints of Lone Star Original over her. Baptism by beer. Go figure.
The deluge of pale malt tastes woody on her tongue as she swipes some of the cool, refreshing drink off her lips.
"Arise!"
She gets to her feet and Merlin takes one of her hands, raising it high and above, presenting her as champion. The room roars in approval and she tucks her chin into her chest with a shy and abashed smile.
She's really not good at being the center of attention. Surely this response is overblown. All she did was shoot a couple apples.
The Tooley Sisters are knighted after her, along with a couple other Ladies who bested some of the Knights in The Great Bar Brawl. Lenora chooses Trinity as her Knight name, an homage to the character from The Matrix, and Cecilia decides on Ripley from Alien as hers.
Later, Bea douses them with fresh water from a hose out back to wash off the sticky beer residue.
"No one told me I was missing the Wet T-Shirt Contest!" Castle gasps dramatically, rounding the corner.
The new Dame Knights giggle as she rolls her eyes. Thankfully, she's still wearing her one-piece suit underneath her soaked top, so there's nothing new to see.
But someone had given the writer a clean blue button-up. He'd rolled up the sleeves and left the top few buttons loose so that some of his chest was exposed (oh so conveniently showing off his stitches). With an unlit cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, he's practically the spitting image of a sweat-slicked Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke. Except even more ruggedly handsome.
So not fair.
She probably looks like a drowned sewer rat.
"Oh, you haven't missed anything yet," Beckett says, sharing a wily grin with Bea. And then the older woman is redirecting the hose and spraying a stream of water at the writer who, instead of ducking and running, revels in the downpour, lapping it up as his blouse drenches and sticks to the contour of his abdomen and toned muscles.
"I think we just found our winner," Bea says, shutting the spigot off with a laugh.
Castle beams. "What's my prize?"
"How about you tell me where my prize is, huh?" Beckett says, throwing him her towel, while Bea and the Dame Knights retreat inside. Someone had fired up the old kitchen grill and hamburgers and hotdogs were making the rounds.
"The Grail is safely stored in a dry cooler and locked in the trunk, Milady," he reports, patting himself semi-dry. "Sorry—Dame Galahad."
She resists another eye-roll. "And you double-checked it's the right one?" she asks.
"Triple-checked by three eye witnesses," he says, puffing his chest.
"But you weren't one of them, right?"
"No," he sighs, morose.
"Good," she says, relieved.
"I still don't understand why I'm not allowed to see it," he pouts.
"Like hell I'm letting you witness the most embarrassing moment of my life."
"Oh, c'mon! I just got sliced open. Sacrificed the name of my firstborn son for you. Don't I get a little credit?" he jokes.
She frowns.
"For what? Doing something I didn't ask you to do? Something I specifically asked you not to do?" she fires back, igniting with anger. "And then you strut around, some big man on campus, acting like it's no big deal. Like everything's just a game."
He stares at her, dumbstruck, his now-wet cigarette hanging limply from his lips.
She can't stand to look at it all of a sudden. Rips the damn thing from his mouth. He's not supposed to have a death wish.
"Do you know what it was like watching you get hurt?" she shouts. "Seeing all that blood? Not knowing if you'd be okay?"
Mollified, he says, "I'm sorry."
"I'm not asking you to be sorry. Just don't be an idiot." Unbidden tears spring to her eyes. "You scared the shit out of me."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
She's not supposed to be crying. Not again. She hates what he's done to her—made her into this blubbering mess—an emotional wreck, all her repressed feelings, spilling out with no finesse or guile.
"Kate," he says softly.
She turns from him, mortified, but he's reaching for her and pulling her close, encasing her in his arms.
"Hey, it's okay, I'm okay," he soothes and she melts, unable to resist the strengthening comfort of his embrace. He, her lodestone—grounding her; mending her.
She doesn't need displays of bravado or supposed acts of valor. She just needs this.
"I thought I lost you," she whispers, clutching to him. She can't go back to being alone. Not now.
"No. Never," he murmurs, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. She shivers slightly, from being waterlogged or from his touch, she's not sure, but he parts from her after a moment, smirking. "You get cute when you get angry."
She glares at him, a silent warning. Don't push it.
"But not when you get angry with me," he covers.
A small grin sprouts at the corner of her mouth.
"I won't watch the tape. I promise. Unless I can persuade you otherwise by buying you a pony. That offer is still viable, you know, and every knight needs a mighty steed."
"I think I'll stick with my Harley," she says with a small chuckle.
"Or I could do something equally embarrassing in return. Tit for tat, eh?"
"Oh, so you're gonna get blind-drunk and marry a complete stranger then?"
"How about something in the general realm of humiliation? Would that suffice?"
She considers him, her interest piqued.
"What kind of humiliation are we talkin'?"
Bea rakes her fingers through Kate's damp hair.
"You don't have to do this," Kate implores.
She and Bea are on an old picnic table under the shade of a sycamore tree out back. Bea sits on the table top and Kate sits on the bench below, positioned between the older woman's legs.
Bea scoffs. "No skin off my teeth, sweet pea. 'Sides, it's a good way to pass the time and it's too hot to be wearin' your hair down anyway."
Castle had requested fifteen minutes to put whatever plan he had into action.
"Do you know what he's doing?"
"Supposed to keep it a surprise," Bea says, bisecting her hair into two halves.
"It's not anything dangerous, is it?"
"No swords or guns are involved, if that's what you mean."
She relaxes and Bea starts braiding one side of her head, gently twisting strands together. Kate can't remember the last time someone's braided her hair…probably sometime in grade school. The tender act makes her think of her mother and a deep affection for Bea seeds in her heart.
"He cares about you, too," Bea says quietly.
"Oh, um…"
"You may not see it. You may not be ready to. But he does."
"Yeah, well, the situation with Castle is...complicated."
"Complicated 'cause you're married to my bastard nephew or 'cause you don't know how to say what you really feel?"
Kate huffs out a sigh. "Have you ever been married?"
Bea stills and she worries she crossed a line, but the older woman resumes working on her hair after a moment, beginning on the other side.
"Almost. But it wasn't in the cards. Guess you could say I'm cursed, too."
"I'm sorry."
"Wasn't your fault, darlin'. 'Sides, it was eons ago."
"No serious candidates since?"
"It's slim pickins out here, but I've got my gals and my bees to keep me company."
"Bees?"
Castle's gonna have a field day when he finds out. Bea and bees? The puns write themselves.
"Got a whole colony buzzin' up a storm in my backyard. I'll show you later. And I'll give you some of my honey. She's won the county fair competition five years in a row now."
"Is that what makes your tea taste so good?"
"Ah. You've figured out my secret," Bea says with a friendly chortle.
"Secret's safe with me," Kate says with a smile, feeling a kinship with her pseudo-aunt. It's only been a few hours since they've met, but it's like she's known her a lot longer.
A comfortable lull falls between them as Bea ties the ends of her twin french braids off.
"Bea?"
She hums noncommittally, smoothing out the finished pigtails.
"Did you always want to be a vet? Or own a shop? I mean, how'd you know what you wanted to do? You know…with your life?"
Bea nudges her with a knee, pompting Kate to scoot over. As the elder brunette maneuvers and settles next to her on the bench, a wistful look ripples over her face.
"Growin' up, all I wanted to do was go on adventures and see the world. But it's like they say…if you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans." She shares a melancholy lift of her lips with Kate, and for the first time, she notices a sadness to Bea, a weary weight in her shoulders—the weight of tragedy. "He's sure had a good chuckle over me 'cause my plans fell apart. Circumstances beyond my control and what not."
"The curse?" Kate ventures, wondering who Bea lost; who her ghosts are.
"The curse," Bea echoes with a rueful sigh. "I didn't necessarily set out wantin' to be a vet or a business-owner. But I eventually figured out I wanted to help people. All creatures big and small. Make a difference in whatever way I could."
She affectionately plays with the ends of Kate's pigtails with a mournful quirk of her mouth and the younger woman desperately wants to put a smile back on her face…a real one, the kind that busts your cheeks open with how big and wide it is, with teeth gleaming, white and bright, and skin crinkling with laugh lines all over.
"You've helped me. Made a huge difference," Kate says whole-heartedly. "And I can't thank you enough."
Bea blooms with a warm smile. Not the cheek-busting, teeth-gleaming, skin-crinkling kind, but some of the sadness is weeded from her eyes, a tenderness flowering in her irises.
"Anytime, sweet pea. And I mean that—Auntie Bea is always a phone call away, ya hear? You're family now and I don't need no damn piece of paper to tell me that."
She ensnares Kate in her arms, trapping her tightly against her chest in a fierce hug. The younger brunette clutches her back, pressing her even closer, trying to transplant her profound gratitude. Trying to sow some of the peace and comfort Bea's given her.
Make that Aunt Bea.
"In fact, I'd like ya to have this," her aunt says, parting from her and reaching for her belt buckle. She unclips the Blue Butterfly and presses it into Kate's palm. The Blue Butterfly that's been passed down from mother to daughter for generations—a family heirloom…a touch of extra love.
A hot lump burns in Kate's throat, the significance of the gesture choking her with a fresh batch of tears. "I can't…this is too much. I can't accept this."
"Nonsense. You can and you will," Bea insists. "I see a lot of myself in you and I figure you could use some extra love," she says, her thumb softly swabbing the saltwater slipping down the younger woman's face. "Sides, you're probably the closest I'll get to havin' a daughter."
Well, fuck.
She's powerless to prevent the sob that wracks through her, Bea's offer of love slamming into her like a tidal wave and she crashes onto the shore of the elder brunette, who immediately envelops her, a column of warmth, a lighthouse in the stormy sea, as she murmurs words of consolation into Kate's ear.
"It's gonna be okay. Whatever it is, it's gonna get better," she says, stroking her hair.
Kate sobs even harder, the fear and anxiety over her dad's health and the pain of missing her mom, gushing out of her.
"Gosh, if I'd knew you'd react like this, I'dda brought some tissues with me."
She separates from Bea on a laugh, wiping her face with her sleeves.
"M sorry. I seem to be breaking down all over people lately. Kinda becoming a bad habit."
"No need to apologize, darlin'. 'Specially to me." Bea kisses her temple and Kate smiles appreciatively. "Promise me something though?"
"Mhm?"
"Don't push away the people who wanna be there for you. Acceptin' support ain't a weakness."
Kate sniffles. Nods. "Promise."
Bea exhales in relief, something seeming to ease in her, as if an inner burden was lifted, an old demon vanquished. And then she's lifting the Blue Butterfly from Kate's hold and fastening it onto the younger brunette's belt, front and center, the paste sapphire diamonds winking under the sunlight.
Kate runs her fingers over the jewel once worn by her namesake, marveling at its beauty. She glances up at Bea, overcome, and her next question tumbles out of her with no preamble.
"How do you know when you're in love?"
Bea grins in gentle amusement. "Never been?"
"Once. I think. But it wasn't…uh, mutual."
She doesn't want to think about last summer. How everything had been ruined when she confessed her feelings to the wrong person. How she spent her first semester at Stanford trying to move on. How—no. Not thinking about it.
"That why you scared to tell Rick how you feel? Cause you think he's still hung up on his ex?"
"They broke up less than a week ago, and it's barely been four whole days since we've met."
"Yeah, well, the heart's a funny thing. Doesn't always make logical choices."
"But how do you know the difference between something real or say…a passing infatuation?"
Bea pauses for a long moment, her autumn brown eyes, glistening with sorrow.
"When you're willing to put their wants and needs ahead of yours, no matter the cost." A knowing smirk replaces her sad smile when she adds, "And when you can't stand to see 'em hurt."
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
God-fucking-damnit.
She's doubled-over, belly aching with laughter.
Somehow, the writer had wrangled Merlin, the Knights, and other townsmen to join him in his gambit: a musical performance of ABBA's Dancing Queen complete with rudimentary choreography and jazz hands.
The real kicker though was that they're all stripped down to just their boots, chaps, and underthings, the varying array of boxers and briefs—a sight to behold.
Getting in the swing
You come to look for a king
Anybody could be that guy
Castle (in a pair of lime green boxer shorts patterned with tiny Scooby-Doos) ditches his spot from the chorus line to come grab her and after a half-hearted game of tug-of-war, she concedes and joins the throng, allowing herself joy as she steps along to the beat, grinning radiantly, the craziness of the day sloughing off her.
And she's not just the girl who spent half the night puking her guts out. The one with a father in the hospital and a mother six feet under. She's not some superhero who rescued a boy from drowning, some mythical knight who found the Holy Grail, or some bastard's wife.
No. Right now, she's just…
You are the dancing queen
Young and sweet
Only seventeen
A girl in love with a boy.
Ooh, see that girl
Watch that scene
Digging the dancing queen
Castle twirls her and she laughs, shining with the thrill of it.
Soon, the whole place is brimming with people singing and dancing, the once dark and grim establishment, bathed in light and bursting with euphoria.
You can dance
You can jive
Having the time of your life
But everything comes to a screeching halt when the front door bangs open and a large, ash-blonde man roars,
"What in tarnation is goin' on here?"
Someone shuts off the boombox and a hush falls over the crowd as a formidable man in his late fifties enters, followed by a woman of a similar age, her long red hair graying at the temples and behind her, a younger man with strawberry blonde hair.
The writer keeps his hand around Beckett's while he assesses these new characters. He'd bet anything that the older two are Arthur and Gwen, the previously absent bar owners. The ones who'd been off running an errand.
And judging by the resemblance of the guy trailing in their wake, he'd guess the tree trunk of a man with a lion's mane is their son.
"Forrest?" a familiar voice says.
A sea of people part and Bea steps through.
"Bea?" Forrest says in awe. "That really you?"
Her astonishment morphs into dark scorn.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she spits. Castle shares a wide-eyed glance with Beckett.
Woah.
"I—"
But whatever Forrest plans on saying is cut short by the loud thwack of Bea's palm across his cheek.
A collective gasp fills the room, and then Bea is rushing out the door, the Tooley Sisters and a few other Ladies joining her. Beckett makes a move to follow, but he holds her back.
"Wait," he murmurs under his breath.
"Merlin," Arthur says, rounding on the shirtless cowboy in form-fitting Lacoste briefs, the brand's famous crocodile logo, large and prominent across Merlin's backside. "You mind tellin' me why y'all are standin' around in your unmentionables?"
"We, uh…" The once-confident man crumbles under Arthur's piercing gaze. Gulps. "Well, it's kinda a long story, you see."
"I reckon it is," Arthur says gruffly. He scans the room. "Why don't you put your clothes on, pour me one, and explain why in the hell there're bullet holes in my ceilin', huh?"
Chatter slowly resumes as Arthur is swallowed up by the Knights and Gwen tends to Forrest, who's still rooted to the spot, reeling from Bea's slap.
"I should go after—"
"No. Leave her be. It's for the best," Gwen chides, putting her hands on his shoulders and steering him toward the back.
"What the hell was that about?" Beckett whispers to the writer.
"Good question, and I know who has the answer."
"You do?"
"The same person who always has the answers in Westerns—the affable, all-knowing barkeep."
"Can't you see I'm busy?" Growls the impatient bartender, gesturing toward the crush of people lining the countertop.
"Okay, maybe not so affable," Castle mutters to Beckett, buttoning up his blue shirt, the material still damp. He'd also retrieved his pants, which he quickly stumbled into on their way over.
"You wanna know about Bea and Forrest?"
He and Beckett turn at the same time, coming upon a wizened man with white curly hair at the end of the bar.
"Homer," the man says, tipping his tan cowboy hat in greeting.
As in the orator of the Odyssey and the Iliad and one of the most famous storytellers in history? Oh, yeah. This guy definitely knows.
They introduce themselves.
"Y'all are causin' quite the stir 'round here," Homer notes. He shoos two patrons from neighboring barstools and gestures, "Be my guest."
They sit as Homer leans over the counter, steals two fresh glasses from behind the bar, and pours them beer from a pitcher in front of him.
"The story of Bea Potts and Forrest Pansy is a tale as old as time," he begins.
"No way!" Castle exclaims.
"What?" Beckett says.
"Potts and Pansy? Like pots and pans?"
"Ignore him," Beckett instructs with a roll of her eyes.
Homer chuckles heartily.
"Well, to understand their story, you gotta know 'bout their parents first. That's where the feudin' started."
"Oh my god, this is Romeo and Juliet, isn't it?"
"Castle!"
"Right. Shutting up."
He quiets as Homer takes them back to 1956, painting them a picture of a teenaged Arthur and Gwen, sweethearts who ruled over Adrian High—the handsome All-American quarterback and the beautiful vivacious head cheerleader. Until a young Lawrence "Lance" Potts moved into town right before the start of senior year. With his James Dean-good looks and bad boy charm, he turned a lot of heads.
Including Gwen's.
"Artie caught 'em neckin' under the bleachers," Homer says, "Went ballistic. Gave Lance a black eye."
"An illicit affair? This keeps getting better and better," Castle squeaks. Beckett elbows him in admonishment. "Sorry. Go on."
Arthur laid down an edict that anyone who associated with Lance was banned from all social activity. Soon, Lance's honeys showed him their backs, valuing their social status too much and he became a pariah—an untouchable outsider.
But everything changed the day Lance accidentally crashed his busted-up pick-up into Nellie Lake's T-Bird. She was class president and the head of the abstinence club and pretty much the only girl who didn't give a damn about parties or boys. She came from a well-respected family. Had her sights set on bigger things.
First and foremost, getting the hell out of Adrian after graduation. She'd been accepted early admission to Princeton, a rarity in their small town.
People thought she was stuck-up and called her a cold and frigid, um, witch, behind her back.
"They fell in love, didn't they?" Beckett says. Castle raises an eyebrow. Since when was she such a romantic?
"Right on the money," Homer says, winking.
"Now who's interrupting?" Castle mock-chastises. Beckett blushes deeply and it's adorable. Especially in her braided pigtails. Which he oh so valiantly has not pulled, tugged, or yanked. Not even once.
Homer continues after a sip of his drink.
Lance's family didn't come from much, so he offered to repair her car himself and started spending every day over at Nellie's house after driving her home from school.
By the end of the year, they're an item, Nellie having done the impossible—reformed the rebel lothario.
Lance, having done the equally impossible—melted the Lake lady's icy exterior.
Lance became the co-head of the abstinence club. Even wore a promise ring. And Nellie started smiling more in the halls, and like magic, the two of them were the new star couple.
"Anyone with two eyes could see they were head over heels," Homer says, "But that didn't stop Artie from spurnin' him any chance he could get. Trippin' him up in the halls and such. Still bitter and distrustin'."
But Lance never retaliated. Stayed on the straight and narrow and true to Nellie. When prom time arrived in the spring, he and Nellie were crowned king and queen over Arthur and Gwen.
"Bet Arthur didn't take that very well, did he?" Castle speculates.
Homer shakes his head, solemn.
"He and some of his teammates ambush Lance at the afterparty by the reservoir. Beat him up within an inch of his life."
Beckett tenses and he knows she must be thinking of her dad. He places a hand on her knee in sympathy and she flashes him a grateful smile, slipping her hand under his and lacing their fingers together, squeezing them lightly, as if to say thank you for being there. He sends her a pulse back. Always. They stay connected while Homer orates.
"Lance landed in the hospital for weeks and Nellie spent the rest of the summer nursin' him back to health. Ended up deferrin' her first semester of school until he was up and walkin' again even though he told her to leave him be and go after her dream…but she never makes it to Princeton."
"Why not?" Beckett says.
"Bea happens," Castle surmises.
Homer puts a finger to his nose in affirmation.
Apparently, once Lance healed (a few months before Nellie was supposed to leave), they broke their twin vows of chastity. And by the time the chill of winter rolled in, she became pregnant and Princeton got deferred for forever.
"They had a Christmas weddin'. Whole town was in attendance."
"Even—?"
"Artie made his amends. Paid for Lance's medical bills. Lance forgave him but asked him to stay on his side of town. See—"
"The town's split half-way by the Route 66 midpoint marker," Castle says eagerly. "I told you this was a Montague-Capulet situation. Property dispute and everything."
"Do you wanna gold star?" Beckett teases.
"I would just like the record to reflect that I was right about this being a Shakespearean tragedy."
"Sure was a Shakespearean tragedy alright," Homer says with a wry chuckle. "Lance Potts versus Arthur Pansy. Potts to the West and Pansy to the East. And Artie stayed on his side and learned to be a better man for his and Gwen's own little bun in the oven."
"Forrest," Beckett rationalizes.
Homer nods. "Artie and Gwen got married on New Year's 'bout a week later. And both babies were born the following June, just three days apart."
"Who was first?" Castle asks.
"Who do you think?"
"Bea," he replies in sync with Beckett. They grin at each other, but then her mouth curves down in a frown, a thought forming on her brow.
"Was it really all just water under the bridge?" she asks. "Lance never pressed charges against Arthur and those boys?"
"One of those boys was the Sheriff's son. And his sister was one of Lance's lovelorn conquests, so Lance knew it would've been a fool's errand." Homer's face darkens. "But Artie paid for his sins. I made sure of that."
A missing puzzle piece slots into place for the writer.
"You're his father, aren't you?" Castle deduces. "Arthur's?"
Homer cradles his empty beer glass, his thumb running up and down the transparent surface.
"He lost his mother when he was just a kid. The big C."
"I'm sorry. That must've been hard," he says.
Homer offers up a melancholy smile.
"I put a lot of pressure on him to be perfect. Had a certain image that needed upholdin' since I was pastor. And the Lord knows I let my grief and temper get the best of me on my worst days. Didn't always set the best example behind closed doors."
The pastor sighs heavily.
"So when Forrest came, I saw it as my second chance. Decided then and there that I could be better for both of 'em. Bought this bar to help with their new start."
"That's really admirable," Castle says sincerely.
Homer shrugs. "They were too young to be parents."
"You made some bad choices, but you didn't let them define you. And you put in the work to change. That's what's important," the writer imparts.
"Fat lot of good it's done 'em. This money pit didn't start breaking even until a couple years in and there was a golden era for a bit until the Route got decommissioned 'bout a decade and a half back. People stopped passin' through and it's been downhill ever since."
"Well, things seem to be looking up, no?" Castle counters, nodding at the swarm behind them.
"Ain't no Medieval Times every day like today," Homer says in rebuttal. "Only thing keepin' 'em afloat has been Forrest and his woodworkin' business. Built quite a name for himself after school carvin' specialty furniture pieces and the like. But now, they're lookin' to sell this dump. No good deed goes unpunished, right?"
"They're selling?" Castle asks.
"Forrest's here to help 'em fix it up for potential buyers. And Gwen and Artie are thinkin' of movin' out east where he's been with his daughter."
"Forrest has a daughter?" Beckett asks.
"I'm gettin' ahead of myself," the pastor says.
Castle picks up the pitcher and refills Homer's glass.
The older man nods in thanks before returning to his tale.
Bea and Forrest grew up knowing each other, going to the same schools, but like most little boys and girls, they didn't mix much. Kept to their separate friend groups. To their sides of town.
Bea always had her head in a book (the kind chock-full of fairy tales) when she wasn't climbing a tree or horseback riding at Avalon Stables, the horse ranch owned by her family and located just outside of town. Lance and Nellie were brought in by Nellie's parents to help manage Avalon when they married, and when Burt and Carol Lake eventually retired, they handed the reins over to the young couple. By then, the Potts family was three kids strong with Eugene and LeAnne being born in the years after Bea.
Forrest was the quiet type, an only child whose favorite pastime was whittling in front of the TV, watching shows like Gilligan's Island, Bewitched, and The Munsters, dreaming of far-off lands and magical adventures. When he's older, Arthur trained his son in football, and like his father, Forrest naturally took to the sport. As a freshman Varsity player, he earned himself the nickname, The Beast.
In high school, Bea was a knockout model beauty who had all the boys chasing after her, but like her mother, she focused on her studies, determined to get out of dodge after graduation.
Forrest was a ruggedly handsome and reluctant jock, preferring to spend his after school hours in the wood shop rather than the football field.
Influenced by their parent's feud, the pair made an effort to avoid each other whenever possible and come senior year, Bea had risen to the rank of class president and Forrest held the title of quarterback.
However, in an effort to round out their academic resumes for college applications, Bea and Forrest signed up to join Drama and were forced to interact. Not only that, they got cast as the leads in the fall play, The Taming of the Shrew.
"You know, there's a romance to Shakespearean tragedies, but I do prefer the comedies," Castle says.
"Of course you do," Kate says with an amused huff.
"Tragedies end in death and doom. The comedies always end in weddings. It's more hopeful," he argues.
"He has a thing about hope," Kate explains to Homer.
"True hope is swift and flies as fast as a swallow. Hope makes kings into gods and lesser men into kings," Homer quotes.
"That's from Richard III," Castle comments. "The translated text but a solid reference anyhow."
"Some of us do read," Homer says with an ironic smile before pressing forward.
For the first time, Bea and Forrest actually had a moment alone to get to know each other. She discovered he wasn't the playboy everyone made him out to be and came to find that he had a sweet and sensitive side. He was a dreamer, just like her, who wanted more than their small town life had to offer.
They struck up a tentative friendship that quickly grew into more and soon, they're hiding their relationship from friends and family, staging public fights and meeting in secret, hopelessly in love. People say Forrest was a goner from the start, a moth to the flame of her fiery personality.
The writer can't help but think of Kate and he instinctively glances at her, but a bar patron stumbles into him just then, pitching him forward, and he knocks into his beer glass, which begins to tip over.
Her hand leaves Castle's grasp as she neatly catches the glass before it falls, both hands steadying it in time. Not one drop spilled.
"Well, I'll be! That was faster than a hot knife through butter," Homer crows in delight.
"Are you sure you're not a ninja?" the writer asks.
Her cheeks turn pink and she clears her throat. "What happened next?"
The pastor returns to his sermon.
As Bea and Forrest carried out their forbidden romance, Lance and Arthur ran against each other for mayor, dividing the town and setting tensions high.
It all imploded when a twelve year-old LeAnne caught Bea and Forrest kissing and ever the blabbermouth, passed this information onto her mother.
Nellie was furious, having never forgiven Arthur for how he hurt Lance and banned Bea from seeing Forrest, even going as far as to launch a negative campaign against him to anyone who would listen, claiming he had the same violent temper as his father. A beast on-and-off the field.
Her words cast an all too powerful spell and the Pansy family became non-grata. Their house was vandalized several times over and they were shunned on every side of town—untouchable outsiders. Arthur saw the writing on the wall and resigned from the mayoral race.
Lance eventually took office and after repeated appeals from Bea, he decreed that Forrest was as docile as they come. Emphasized he'd forgiven Arthur for the past and Forrest shouldn't suffer the sins of his father. Nellie, seeing the error of her ways, recanted her statements and added her own apology to calm the waters and finally, almost two decades later, for the sake of their children, peace was brokered between west and east, between Potts and Pansy.
The Taming of the Shrew was sold out for all two weeks of its run, and by spring, Bea and Forrest were openly an item, looking forward to Princeton together, where they'd both been granted admission, unheard of in their little wayside hamlet. And in a landslide victory, they were crowned king and queen for prom.
"And not a lot of people know this, but they were fixin' on elopin'. They came to me that evenin', askin' me to officiate since I'd been the one to marry both their parents," Homer says, "But I never got the chance."
"Why not?" Kate asks, on the edge of her seat, heart hammering and a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
"All went to hell in a handbasket when Lance suffered a heart attack. The kind they call the widowmaker. He died that night," Homer reveals. "And mad with grief, Nellie died of a broken heart three days later."
"No," she gasps sharply. "Both of them?"
"Fraid so," Homer says somberly. "Bea shut down completely and shut everyone. Didn't accept help. Even pushed Forrest away."
The elder brunette's earlier advice rings loudly in her ears.
Don't push away the people who wanna be there for you. Acceptin' support ain't a weakness.
Oh, God.
Oh, Bea.
And since their grandparents had already passed and Lance and Nellie were both only children, the responsibility of caring for her younger siblings, Gene and LeAnne (then fifteen and thirteen), fell upon Bea's eighteen year-old shoulders.
By this point, it was the late 70s and Route 66 traffic had started to seriously dwindle, so Bea had to make the difficult decision to sell Avalon Stables, a once thriving tourist destination, because she was unable to pay for the upkeep anymore.
She also had to sell her childhood home in order to pay for the funeral costs and mountain of medical bills from the hospital. She used whatever profit she made to purchase the souvenir shop and the small house behind it, where she moved in with her siblings as their official legal guardian. Princeton, a broken dream. Just as it was for her mother.
Guess you could say I'm cursed, too.
The elephant returns to Beckett's chest, stomping on her heart.
Bea enrolled in night classes at the local college in Amarillo instead and earned a business degree for her undergrad and attended vet school for four years after that for her D.V. M. (Doctor of Veterinary Medicine).
"What about Forrest? Did he really stay away?" Castle asks.
"He tried to be there for her that summer, but Bea was determined to prove she could do everything on her own. Wouldn't listen to reason—her belief in magic and happily ever afters gone. Her heart…hardened to stone."
Beckett struggles to breathe.
"Castle, I need some air. I—I can't."
She can't listen anymore, the similarities between her and Bea absolutely gutting her and piercing her straight to the core.
"Okay. Alright."
The writer immediately rises from his seat with no question. He doesn't need to ask why. He already knows.
"I ain't done," Homer protests.
"We know how it ends," she says.
"We do?" Castle asks.
She lets out a lengthy sigh and the elephant of panic departs as her mind organizes the facts.
"How old is Forrest's daughter?"
"Rory's twenty-two," Homer replies. "Just graduated from Yale."
"And how long has it been since Bea and Forrest have last seen each other?"
"'Bout twenty-three years," he answers.
Uh huh. That's what she thought. That's The Mystery of the Slap solved then.
"He went to Princeton without her, didn't he? Met someone else?" she infers.
"Bea told him to go. Said one of 'em should get to. He refused at first. But then she said she never wanted to see him again. Said she didn't love him no more. So he finally went."
"And got a girl pregnant," she concludes.
"Drunken one-night stand," Homer confirms. "The girl was from one of those fancy high society families from Connecticut, so Forrest did the right thing and proposed."
"How is the right thing marrying the wrong girl?" Castle asks.
"When you become a parent, you do what's best for your child. Sometimes that means sacrificin' your own happiness," Homer says.
"Is he still with her? This other woman?" Beckett queries.
"They divorced years ago."
"And he never came back to fight for Bea? Even when Rory was all grown up?" the writer presses.
"He didn't think Bea wanted him to," Homer explains. "But everyone here knows the reason her relationships ain't ever work out 'cause she's still pinin' for him. That's the theory anyway."
"Why are you telling us all of this?" Beckett interrogates.
She knows they came seeking a story, but she hadn't expected a whole damn saga. Certainly hadn't expected for it to completely wreck her.
Homer's quiet for a beat.
"Because when you two talk, people listen. And I think there's still time to turn this tragedy into a comedy, don't ya think?"
Before either of them can formulate a response, a loud cry from the kitchen robs their attention.
Gwen rushes out, yelling over the noise.
"Forrest cut his hand real bad! We need—"
Beckett jumps from her stool. "I'll get her. I'll get Bea," she announces loudly. Then, addressing the writer. "Can you—?"
"Get the first-aid kit and get him prepped?"
She smiles and pecks him on the cheek before rushing toward the exit.
She bolts toward the small cluster of Dame Knights standing out front.
"Where's Bea?" she asks them.
Dame Lenora-Trinity hesitates.
"Forrest needs medical attention," Kate urges.
"She went on a walk to clear her head thataway," Dame Cecilia-Ripley answers, pointing south on the dirt road. "Bout twenty minutes ago."
Kate curses. That means she's at least a couple miles away. She surveys the mess of bikes and cars choking the sandy parking lot. No way she can get to her Harley in all that.
Just as she's deliberating whether to go after Bea on foot, a newcomer pulls in on an old cruiser. She immediately hails them down and pleads her case, asking to borrow their motorcycle.
"It's a matter of life and death," she claims. It's hyperbolic but ultimately effective (the writer really is rubbing off on her) and she's roaring down the road in no time.
Forrest swigs from the whiskey bottle and grimaces as Bea carefully lifts his blood-soaked bandaging and inspects the deep gash on his palm that still spurts with blood.
"What the hell happened?" she asks, rapidly pressing the bandaging back down.
"Does it really matter?" he says, wincing.
"For someone who makes a livin' usin' sharp tools, you sure are a clumsy fool," she huffs.
"Can you fix it or not?" Forrest challenges.
The writer notes no trace of a Texan accent in the woodworker's voice. Likely due to the several decades he spent living in New England.
Castle observes the pair closely, also noting the tension between the old flames, crackling in the air like a live wire. Woah. Talk about electricity.
"Stitches won't do a thing. Blood's comin' too fast. I'mma need to cauterize it."
Forrest's eyes widen and his face pales.
"As in—?"
Bea sets her shoulders in grim determination.
"I need someone to heat up somethin' metal right quick."
The piece of leather in Forrest's mouth does little to muffle the howl that rips from him as Bea brands his skin with the flat edge of a newly molten hot butter knife.
Within seconds, she's dunking the knife in a bucket of water. A hiss of steam emits as she wipes Forrest's wound with a clean cloth. Kate passes her an antibiotic cream and the vet gently slathers the solution over the clotted laceration, while Castle provides her with gauze.
As soon as she's done methodically swaddling his hand, Bea exits the kitchen without another word.
"Bea, wait, damnit!" Forrest shouts, running after her. The rest of the kitchen crew tags along, not wanting to miss the show. "I just need to know one thing!"
The vet stops in front of the fireplace. Whirls to face him.
"What?"
Forrest comes to a halt a few feet from her.
A Knight scrambles from his repose in the large oak chair betwixt them and swiftly scoots the throne and himself out of the way, giving them the floor.
The hubbub in the bar dies, hundreds of eyes focusing in on the ill-fated couple, who are in their own bubble, the audience seemingly nonexistent to them. The writer and Beckett stand at the fore. He really wishes he had his Moleskine. But it's okay. He'll just commit it all to memory. He has a pretty good one.
"Well, first of all. Thank you," Forrest says, "That was a hell of a save."
Bea starts to turn away.
"But more importantly, why'd you never write me back?"
She pauses, confusion creasing brow. "What in God's name are you talkin' about?"
"When Morgan and I split four years back, I sent you letters. I wanted to come home, but I wasn't sure if you wanted me to. So I wrote to you every month for a year. But when I never heard from you, I assumed…"
"I never got no letters."
"You—"
Bea spins toward the mob. "Is Gary Sutton here?" she calls out.
There's a low murmur, a couple cries of found him and then a series of yelps as a man made of muscle is pushed onto the scene, his plaid shirt, a criss-cross of yellow and red and his black hair, tied back in a small ponytail. This must be their Gaston, the writer decides. A spurned suitor of Bea, no doubt. And judging by his physique, maybe a former teammate of Forrest's. A linebacker, perhaps.
"You—Mr. Postman. Care to explain why I never received nothin'?" Bea demands.
He smiles nervously. "Uh. Must've gotten lost in the shuffle. You know how it is."
"All twelve of 'em?" Bea presses.
"Sure you put the right address on 'em?" Gary deflects, looking at Forrest.
"'Course I'm sure," the woodworker says, indignant.
"You're actin' all squirrely, Sutton. What're you hidin'?" Bea asks, getting close to him.
The postman pulls at his collar, pellets of sweat darting down his face. "Nothin'. Nothin' at all."
Quick as lightning, she snags his ear and twists the soft flesh. "Tell me the truth," she orders.
"Ow! Ow! Ow!" He hollers. "Ask Gwen!"
Bea releases him. "Why should I ask Gwen?"
"Momma?" Forrest angles toward the redheaded matriarch.
Gwen twists her hands together and stares at the floor, avoiding everyone's gaze.
"I told him to intercept 'em for me," she confesses in a mumble.
"What'd she say?" A townie shouts.
"Speak louder!" Another squawks.
"You intercepted my letters?" Forrest asks, utterly stupefied. His shock reverberates into the jury congregation. "Why the hell would you do that?"
No longer the subject of scrutiny, Gary disappears back into the shadows of the throng as the spotlight shines on Gwen, the new defendant for the prosecution.
The faded beauty delivers her desperate testimony.
"There's only ever been pain when you two were together and Bea was datin' some fancy doctor from the big city at the time, so I wanted to spare ya more heartache. Thought you were better off apart."
Forrest is dead calm when he finally speaks. "That wasn't for you to decide."
"I'm sorry, son. Please. Ya have to understand, I was just doin' what was best."
"Bullshit."
"Don't use that language with me."
"I'm just callin' it like I see it," Forrest snaps, his old accent re-emerging. "'Cause I think you didn't give a damn about what was best. You were still harborin' a grudge, weren't you? Even after the hatchet was long buried. After they were buried. But that wasn't enough. No. You had to have the last word. Drive the final nail into the coffin." He approaches her, a tower of tranquil fury. "God, Momma, have you no shame? Or is there only wickedness in your heart?"
A tornado of stunned whispers and murmurs tear a path of destruction through the spectators, leveling whatever is left of Gwen's dignity and she buckles to her knees, her son's indictment dropping onto her like a house from the sky.
"Forrest. My boy. Please forgive me. I apologize for flyin' off the handle. Really, I…I'm sorry."
She casts her arms around his waist and buries her head into his lower torso with a sob.
Forrest looks at Bea.
"I ain't the only one you should be sorry to," he says.
Gwen peels from him. Picks herself up and fixes her appearance, scrubbing off the tracks of her tears with the fabric of her emerald blouse.
Contrition in her step, she makes her way to Bea, but the vet recoils at her advance.
"That's far enough." The brunette's voice quivers.
Gwen belays her stride.
"Beatrice, I'm sorry. I was wrong. I don't deserve nothin' from you. I was petty and jealous and—"
"Jealous?"
"Your momma was always the smartest and fairest in all the land. Had a special magic in her. And then you turned out just like her. It was mighty childish of me, but I couldn't let go of my girlhood envy and I let my green monster rear its ugly head. I don't expect your forgiveness, but I hope you'll take these as a token of my apology."
Gwen reaches down and shucks the ruby red boots from her feet and sets them before Bea.
"Why would I want these?"
"Me and your momma used to be best friends, you know? Like sisters."
Disbelief crests over Bea's features. "You're pullin' my leg," the vet contends. She consults the assembly. "She's pullin' my leg, ain't she?"
"Ain't many left that're old enough to remember. 'Cept maybe—"
"It's true," Homer chimes. He battles his way to the stage. "Thick as thieves."
Gwen smiles faintly. Gives her father-in-law a thankful nod. "But the summer leadin' up to high school, we had a fallin' out. Over a stupid boy of all things."
The whole town bares their teeth at Arthur, the most likely suspect.
"Wasn't me!" he objects. "Me and Gwen didn't start datin' 'til junior year."
"It don't matter anyway. He don't live here no more," Gwen declares and the wolves retreat. "Once the school year started, she joined student council and I made cheer squad and that was that." She inches the shoes closer to Bea. "These used to be her favorite ridin' boots. Said there was no place like home when she was on a horse and wearin' 'em."
"How'd they come into your possession?"
Gwen falters. "She was lettin' me borrow 'em. Right before the, um…the boy." Tears slink down her face. "I'm sorry. I had no right to 'em. But it was the only memento of what we used to be. What we used to mean to each other." The redhead's voice is rough with grief. "I loved her, too."
The writer tastes salt on his tongue and he's surprised to find a few silent tears leaking from him. He palms them away as there's a concert of nose-blowing and sniffling from around the room. He finds Beckett blotting her eyes as well.
And then Bea is shucking her white boots and placing them before Gwen. A peace treaty. Forgiveness.
"Guess it's a good thing we're all the same size."
"You're givin' these—?"
"Lettin' you borrow," Bea interrupts. "I can't let ya walk around here without protection. Not sure we caught all the glass. But maybe don't take over forty years 'til you decide to return 'em, kay?"
The redhead chokes out a laugh and chuckles roll over the walls.
As both women slip on their new (old) footwear, a quiet descends, something sacred about the ceremony of it. The Wicked Witch defeated. Dorothy arrived home.
Bea admires her mother's legacy, throws a wink at the townsfolk, and taps her heels together three times.
She looks up at Gwen.
"Well, whatchya waitin' for? Ain't we supposed to hug or somethin'?"
The redhead launches herself at the brunette and they come together as The Camelot erupts with thunderous applause.
The raucous din eventually falls to a dull roar and someone chirps, "What about the letters? What happened to 'em?"
Yeah, where are they? and What'd they say? The ensemble twitters.
Gwen disconnects from Bea. "They're back at the house. I could—"
"I think I can take it from here," Forrest says with a hand on his mother's shoulder. She smiles sweetly at him, brooms a kiss to his cheek with a sweep of her lips, and melts into the puddle of people.
The Beast stands before his Beauty and gathers her healing hands with his wounded and weathered ones.
"Hi."
She ducks her head, a shy giggle springing from her throat.
"Hi."
His unbandaged palm cups her jaw.
"God, you haven't changed a bit, have you? Still remarkable and maddening as all hell."
"Not an untameable shrew then?" she says wryly.
"You sure ain't a shrew," he chuckles. "But I don't think anyone can tame your free spirit. And I wouldn't want you to stop being challenging and frustrating, either. It's why I fell in love with you in the first place and why I still love you."
Kate gasps softly.
Bea freezes.
And there's a long beat of pin-dropping silence.
Forrest soldiers on.
"I know I'm a couple decades late. And I'm sorry for everything that happened after I left. I never intended to hurt you. I wouldn't trade Rory for the world, but I wish I didn't have to lose you in the process. I wish I'd fought for you. For us," Forrest proclaims. "I'm sorry, Honey Bea."
Kate watches tears prick Bea's eyes as she shakes her head and takes a step back.
The onlookers cry out in dismay and Forrest's expression topples to the ground like an axed tree.
"You think you can just waltz back in here and expect me to fall at your feet?"
"Well, no one said you had to, but I'd be happy to pick you up," he jokes.
"You think this is funny? Showin' up out of the blue and claimin' you still love me? You left. Got a new life. New family. And you never looked back. How am I supposed to believe anythin' comin' out of your mouth?"
Rather than backing down, Forrest burns with the rage of a wildfire.
"You said you didn't love me. Said you didn't want me to step foot here ever again."
Bea buzzes with anger.
"I only ever said all that 'cause it was the only way one of us could have our dream. Only way for one of us to get out of here and have something bigger."
Forrest's raging fire immediately snuffs out.
"Oh, Bea." He gentles. "Princeton was never my dream. You were." He steps forward. "Still are, in fact. And if there's a chance you love me back, I ain't leavin' 'til I've fought for you tooth and nail."
A strangled sob heaves from Bea's chest. Forrest erases the distance between them.
"I'm tired of being apart."
Bea puts an arm out, creating space. "We can't just pick up where we left off. It don't work like that."
"Who the hell cares how it's supposed to work? I love you. And if you love me, then we'll figure out the rest. Just as long as we're together."
She stares at him, tears trailing, uncertainty written on her brow.
"Just kiss him already!" a voice shouts.
"Yeah, what's the hold up?" another asks.
"If you don't want him, honey, I'll take him!" hollers a third.
"Shut it, will you? I can't hear myself think!" Bea bawls.
"Your listenin' to your head too much, darlin'," Homer preaches. "What's your heart sayin'?"
His words seem to sting her.
"Bea, why haven't you ever found someone?" Forrest asks.
She spins and snarks, "Not everyone needs a man for a fulfillin' life."
He doesn't rise to the bait. Goes out on a limb instead.
"It's 'cause you're afraid, isn't it? Afraid to be happy? So you hide in these nowhere relationships with men you don't love. But you deserve to be happy." He captures her face in his hands and tenderly thumbs her tears away. "I could make you happy. And we could go on all those adventures we used to talk about. Just you and me. What do you say?"
"I…"
Homer coughs theatrically. Kate cuts her gaze from the couple to find the pastor glancing meaningfully at her and the writer. What the—?
And then it hits her.
I think there's still time to turn this tragedy into a comedy, don't ya think?
And comedies always end in weddings.
How the hell are they supposed to manage that?
She's about to covertly flag the writer's attention when he suddenly breaks from the crowd.
"Castle!" she hisses. "What're you doing?"
The room swells with an orchestra of confused whispers as the writer snags one of the swords leaning against the fireplace cobblestones, veers toward the couple, and pauses in front of them.
"Hi, uh, sorry to interrupt," he says. "But I thought you might need this." He offers the pommel to Forrest and cryptically adds, "All or nothing."
A secret understanding passes between them and Forrest nods. "All or nothing."
Then, the woodworker detaches from a perplexed Bea, snatches the sword from Castle, and briskly lumbers to the fireplace where, without warning, he drives the blade between two stones in the middle of the hearth, sinking it straight into the mortar.
"The hell are you doing, boy?" Arthur bellows.
Forrest ignores his father as he pries a stone from the center loose. When it pops free, he reaches down to retrieve something hiding underneath, the sword clattering to the ground. He extracts a small leather pouch.
"What is that?" Bea asks.
"Why don't you take a look?" He tosses it to her in a graceful arc.
She plucks the pouch from the air, draws it open, and dumps whatever's inside onto her palm.
A ring tumbles out.
"Touchdown."
Kate's caught off guard by the writer's murmur in her ear. She hadn't noticed him return to her side, too distracted by the play.
"How'd you know?" she asks in a low voice.
"Later," he whispers.
Bea picks the ring up in an awed stupor and the room gasps at the sight of it, the sapphire gemstone glinting in the brightness streaming through the windows.
Forrest approaches her.
"I know this is crazy. Certifiably insane. But I don't wanna waste another goddman minute. I've loved you since I was a boy and I promise to love you for the rest of my life. So here goes…all or nothin'." He bends down on one knee. "Beatrice Eleanor Potts, will you marry me?"
She stares at him, speechless. The whole room holds its breath.
It should be an easy answer, but Kate knows why Bea's hesitating; why she's scared to just dive in. And she knows what she needs to do to help push her off the ledge.
"Castle, give me your sharpie," she orders, sotto.
"What?"
"Just give it, will you?"
He hands her the one he always carries in his front pocket in case someone asks him for an autograph. She hurriedly scoops a stray napkin from the floor and uses the writer's back as a surface to scribble a message on it.
Then, she enters the stage.
"Hi, uh, sorry to interrupt," Kate says, "But I thought you might need this."
She passes her note to Bea before rapidly retreating to Castle's side again.
"What'd you write?" he asks immediately.
"Later," she whispers.
The vet scans the text.
You know how curses in all the great stories are broken?
Beckett taps the Blue Butterfly on her belt for emphasis when Bea looks over at her.
C'mon, c'mon.
And then it happens—
Bea smiles.
And it's a cheek-busting, teeth-gleaming, skin-crinkling smile.
The elder brunette tucks the napkin inside her shirt, over her heart.
"Stand up," she requests.
"Bea—" Forrest starts to protest.
"I said stand up."
He hastens to his feet.
"You're a goddamn idiot, you know that?"
A gigantic grin splits his face open.
"Is that a yes?"
"God help me, I've loved you since I was a girl and I promise to love you for the rest of my life." She slips the ring on. "So yes, Forrest Mason Pansy—I will marry you."
West and East move into each other at the same moment and their lips finally meet for a kiss that's sweet and soft and slow.
A kiss of true love.
A curse lifted, The Camelot explodes with cheers and whistles.
Bea flings her hat into the crowd before plunging back in with Forrest and they make out like teenagers.
"Get a room!" Castle yells.
Beckett whacks him in light admonishment on the chest, a smile busting her cheeks wide.
The boombox switches on, blasting with the vocals of Pat Benatar.
We are strong
No one can tell us we're wrong
Searching our hearts for so long
Both of us knowing
Love is a battlefield
xxx
A/N: I appreciate everyone who enjoyed the last chapter and took the time to tell me so! I also wanted to give a special shoutout to the newcomers who left me the most lovely and enthusiastic comments. It brings me so much delight to have more roadies along for the ride. It's an honor and a pleasure to have you.
And I promise a proper Caskett kiss is in the cards. Just a few more roadblocks to hurdle over first. It's a slowburn, baby!