Author's Note: I bring you a break from your regularly-scheduled programming with a short story for Valentine's Day. (I can, apparently, be inspired to write a seasonally-appropriate story, who knew?) Rest assured, I will return to "The Best-Laid Plans" once this story is over but for now, I give you a short four-chapter post-ep for 3x15 "The Final Nail," picking up right at the end of the episode and going from there. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.
What Matters More
Chapter 1
Kate hovered at the foot of the stairs leading up to the front door of the Westlake's brownstone. She entirely understood now why Castle reacted so strongly whenever she told him he should watch from observation rather than going into the box with her because this kind of waiting was terrible. Made worse because unlike Castle in observation, she didn't have the luxury of watching what was going on as Castle confronted Damian with the long-buried truth about his father's murder.
She had offered to accompany Castle as he confronted Damian but Castle had insisted he talk to Damien alone, insisted that he was sure he would be fine and Damian wouldn't try anything. Kate could not be quite so sure; she had been a cop for long enough to know that a cornered rat was the most dangerous and she wouldn't trust Damian Westlake any further than she could throw him, less than that even. But Castle had insisted, with his mouth set in a way she recognized by now as meaning he had made his mind up and Castle could be quite as stubborn as she herself when he made up his mind to be. But she didn't like it.
Hence why she couldn't seem to bring herself to move from where she stood, close enough to be able to make it inside the brownstone if she heard even the smallest sound of a disturbance or a struggle.
Not only because she distrusted how Damian might react but she thought that it was possible her presence might help, even if only slightly, for her to have Castle's back as he confronted his former friend about his long-ago crime. She inwardly grimaced as she remembered Castle's face, his reaction, when she had told him about Michael Rutherford's confession–more, when she'd shown him the copy of the hand-drawn map Damian had given to Michael Rutherford. It had been startling, shocking, to see all the light vanish from his eyes, see the way he'd appeared to age years in just the space of those few minutes. It wasn't as if she had ever liked Damian, had not trusted him from the first, but at that moment, Kate thought that Damian's betrayal of Castle's faith in him made her hate him more, could almost think his betrayal of Castle was the truly unforgivable part of everything he had done–almost. She didn't think she had ever hated being proven right quite as much. And considering she spent most of her days mocking Castle's crazy theories and telling him he should rely more on evidence, actually seeing Castle be so disillusioned was a very different, much harder thing.
A couple squad cars pulled up, double-parking at the curb and placing their lights on, and Detective Salazar along with a couple of uniforms from Homicide, Funes and Prezniski, both of whom were relatively new to the 12th. She greeted Detective Salazar, introducing herself since prior to then, they had only spoken on the phone, and the uniforms, and told them that Castle was talking to Westlake as they spoke, confronting him with the evidence.
Detective Salazar slanted a look at her. "He went in to talk to Westlake alone?"
"He insisted," she told him briefly since his surprise echoed her own unease. "He said he was sure Damian would cooperate when he realized the game was up." She paused, her lips twisting slightly. "He said Damian would be a gentleman."
Detective Salazar had the good manners and the restraint of years not to snort or openly scoff at the idea of a murderer–and someone who had plotted to kill his own father, at that–being a gentleman but the other cops were not quite so restrained, their expressions registering open skepticism.
She made a rueful grimace and gestured with one hand. "He's had a few minutes so you can go on and make the arrest."
Salazar, Funes, and Prezniski went up and rang the doorbell and she watched as the door was opened by Castle, appearing even more grim than he had when he'd entered, who stepped outside and watched as the uniforms handcuffed Damian. At the last moment, before the uniforms prodded Damian down the stairs, she saw him turn his head and glance at Castle and she somehow sensed, even from that distance, the way Castle stiffened at the look, and she certainly caught the way something almost approaching a wince flashed across his features.
Then Damian was being placed in the back of the waiting squad car and Castle descended the stairs, alone again, his shoulders slumped, his expression bleak. Even his very footsteps looked desolate–and then she told herself she was being absurd to think she could read his, or anyone's mood, from his walk but then again, maybe it wasn't so absurd. She had worked alongside Castle for two years now, she knew his usual stride, the lightness and quickness of it, and it was gone now. He walked as if his feet were heavy.
He joined her on the sidewalk at the foot of the stairs.
"'Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy.' F. Scott Fitzgerald said that," she said quietly.
He glanced at her. "Then it must have been Ernest Hemingway who said, 'man, I sure could use a drink right about now.'"
"Lead the way. I'm buying."
He paused fractionally as if considering the offer and then slanted a look at her. "It's Valentine's Day. Shouldn't you be in a nice, candlelit restaurant, wearing a new dress, ordering surf and turf?"
Oh right, she realized with a mild shock that she had, for the last hours since learning the truth about Damian Westlake, forgotten about Valentine's Day and her date with Josh. She inwardly grimaced. "I've got a couple of hours," she responded, which was true enough. Josh wouldn't be picking her up from her place until 7 so even if she spent the next hour with Castle trying to cheer him up, she would have time to go home and change. But it occurred to her that even if that weren't the case, she would still have offered. She couldn't imagine simply leaving Castle now, not after what he'd just learned about his friend. She knew what betrayal felt like, remembered with a twist of her stomach, what it had felt like to arrest Royce–and she could not leave Castle to go through that alone.
They started to walk, their steps keeping pace beside each other with the ease of habit. She glanced at him. "You okay?"
He tried for a wan attempt at one of his usual smiles. "Yeah, I'm fine."
She nudged him with her elbow. "Liar."
He blinked, as if nonplussed that she had called him on it, and then lifted one shoulder slightly in a half-shrug. "Okay, but it's just a flesh wound, no permanent damage."
Flesh wounds could hurt like the very devil. She didn't say that aloud, for the moment deciding to accept that Castle didn't feel like talking about it, something she could certainly understand. She nodded instead. "So where do you want to go for this drink?" she ventured.
He slanted a look at her, his lips curving slightly. "The Old Haunt?" he suggested.
She nudged him again, throwing him a look. "Nice try but you and I both know that would defeat the purpose of my buying you a drink." Since he had made it clear from the beginning that neither she–nor the boys or Captain Montgomery–would ever have to pay for a drink at the Old Haunt. The boys had proclaimed the Old Haunt their new favorite watering hole for that reason, although she knew that words aside, they actually didn't take advantage of the Old Haunt too often except when Castle was with them–but then neither were the sort to try to take advantage of Castle's generosity.
He made a little moue of acknowledgment. "I like the Old Haunt," he returned almost defensively.
"We can go to the Old Haunt another time, not today."
He lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, you can buy me a drink. Let's just keep walking; we'll find a place."
"Sure," she agreed equably.
They walked on in silence, their arms occasionally brushing, while she slanted surreptitious glances at him from time to time. It wasn't very like Castle to be so silent and more unusually, he was striding along with his eyes mostly fixed on the pavement, rather than looking around, making up stories about the people and places they passed as he usually did, in the odd times when he was silent. In his bleak absorption, he was causing the other pedestrians to have to step around him and she inwardly sighed, reaching out and grasping his elbow in one hand to steer him to the side of a big group of what looked like college kids approaching.
The touch startled him into glancing first at her and then up to notice the group and, immediately understanding, he stepped to the side, as she released his elbow. But his movement, the size of the group, meant that they were momentarily forced to halt, as a parking meter and the cars parked along the curb blocked her from continuing forward. He ended up standing almost pressed against her, close enough that she felt the way he tensed when he realized just how close they abruptly were, close enough she could feel the warmth from his body even through the layers of their clothes, close enough that when she sucked in a breath, she got a nose-ful of his familiar scent, his cologne and something else that was just him. And she didn't–absolutely didn't–react in any way to his nearness or his scent. Not at all.
Because she had a boyfriend, she reminded herself sharply.
"Thanks for steering me," he abruptly blurted.
She ventured a glance at him, met his eyes, noted again that in his current mood, they were so dark as to appear slate gray rather than the deep blue they normally were. "Anytime," she managed.
The group of kids thankfully was past and he immediately stepped back and she told herself she wasn't actually that aware of the rush of cold air filling the space, wasn't aware of the loss of his warmth. She wasn't because it wasn't like that between them.
Fortunately, he seemed to have taken the group as a reminder that they were on the streets of Manhattan, not known for being spacious, so he was more alert to his surroundings as they resumed walking and if she was careful to keep an inch or so of space between their arms so as not to brush against him anymore, well, it was subtle and it didn't really mean anything.
They walked for another block or so until they turned onto one of the larger avenues and after a little ways, he gestured to a sign that indicated an Irish pub, called O'Toole's. "That look okay?"
She gestured with one arm. "Your choice." By now, at least, she wasn't surprised that given a choice, Castle would incline towards such a casual, low-key place as a pub, not some fancy high-end bar. He might be well able to afford such places but when on his own, or out with her or the boys, his taste ran to the down-to-earth, places like Remy's.
His lips lifted fractionally as he went to hold the door open for her.
It was on the early side for a happy hour and a pub like this was not likely to be a hot spot on Valentine's Day so it wasn't crowded. They settled at a high-top table off by one wall and adjacent to the end of the bar and she directed him to sit while she went up to get their drinks.
"Scotch for you?" she guessed.
His lips eased slightly. "Good call."
She knew his drink order by now–and why shouldn't she? They had been working together for two years now, had been out for drinks numerous times, with and without the boys in tow so it made sense. She ignored the fact that she wasn't sure she could so confidently guess at the boys' drink orders although she knew that Ryan couldn't drink tequila.
She went to the bar, ordering the Scotch for Castle and getting a beer for herself, and returned to the table where Castle was tracing a finger around one of the stains on the wood, his expression again abstracted and bleak.
He looked up as she placed the drinks on the table and perched on the other stool. He waited until she was settled and had picked up her glass before he lifted his drink, clinking it lightly against hers. "Thanks for this," was all he said, instead of making any sort of toast.
"Of course." She sipped and then watched, managing not to frown as he lifted his glass to his lips and downed half the glass in one go, which was also not like him, even granting that this wasn't some expensive Scotch that really needed to be savored slowly.
He lowered his glass and then looked up at her, his lips twisting. "You can say it, you know."
"Say what?"
"That you told me so." He grimaced at his glass. "You were right about Damian."
She winced a little. "I'm sorry," she offered. She had never felt less like saying, I told you so, in her life. She couldn't possibly feel any satisfaction over being right when faced with Castle's reaction.
His lips twisted a little and he glanced up at her. "Not your fault."
"It's not yours either."
He made a sound, something partway between a scoff and a bark, a bitter sound that she had never heard from him before. "No? After I swore up and down that I knew Damian and he wasn't capable of murder?" He broke off, his lips twisting. "Okay, fine, so maybe it's not my fault but it sure as hell makes me out to be a colossal idiot."
Kate managed not to flinch. "You're not an idiot," she disagreed. "All it says is that you're a loyal friend." A far more loyal friend than Damian had ever deserved but that she wasn't about to say.
He made a bitter little sound that was entirely unlike him. "Such a loyal friend I handed my friend over to the cops."
Was that what Damian's last glance at Castle had been for, a reproach? She felt a surge of anger at Damian. As if Castle wasn't already tormented enough. "You were trying to prove him innocent, as a loyal friend would do. And if the truth you uncovered didn't exonerate him, that's on Damian, not on you."
He slanted a glance at her and then looked down again but didn't respond aloud.
"You are a loyal friend," she repeated, "you believe in the people you care about. Like you believed in Kyra and defended her."
His expression softened, eased, fractionally at the mention of Kyra. "Kyra is like the human equivalent of a teddy bear, too sweet to murder anyone. She even gets along with her mother and you saw what Sheila is like."
She didn't love hearing him praise another woman like this–not that she should care because she and Castle were only friends–but in any event, she cared more that he appeared to have brightened up a little. "More than that, you believe in people, give them the benefit of the doubt." The same part of him that had made him say Damian would be a gentleman and believe it too. It was one of the things she liked about him, maybe partly because it was so unlike herself and somehow, it made a sort of protectiveness well up inside her. As if she wanted to wrap Castle and his belief in people up in the proverbial cotton wool so he would never become as cynical as she was. It was absurd and unlike her but she couldn't quite help it either.
Maybe it was because with Castle, she knew it wasn't out of naivete or foolishness or anything; it was just something inherent in him, his optimism, and she rather thought it was a sign of strength, withstanding all that he saw in the world and somehow rising above it. Even when people let him down, even seeing all the evil that humanity was capable of, he persevered and still chose to believe in people. The way he had with Scarlett Price–except that was a very bad example and one she could not mention now. She cast about for another example and finally blurted, "Like you tried again with Gina, gave her a second chance."
He jerked his eyes up to her and then let out a brief sardonic chuckle that wasn't at all humorous. "And that turned out so well," he returned sarcastically. "Stellar judgment there, dating my ex-wife as if all the reasons we got divorced in the first place no longer existed." He lifted his glass to take another drink but at least this time, he only sipped.
Okay, so that example hadn't been the best one either. Why oh why could she not have even a small fraction of his skill with words? Castle was usually good at knowing what to say when she needed to be comforted and here she was, flailing and failing. So maybe she wasn't used to having to be the one to cheer him up but she wanted to be there for him and that had to count for something. She knew him, knew his drink order, his food preferences, his expressions, his habit of storytelling. Surely she could come up with something. She hesitated and then after a moment, tried, quietly, "You've never given up on me."
His hands jerked a little as he stared at her, his expression a little blank with surprise. "What–when have you ever done anything to make me even need to give you a second chance?"
It wasn't the same, she knew it wasn't the same, but it was the best she could come up with. And in fairness, it wasn't entirely off-base either. She knew that she wasn't the easiest person to get along with, wasn't the easiest person to get to know—as she'd told him once (and pushed aside the memory of the hurt she'd felt almost immediately afterwards when Gina had shown up, the memory that still stung, even after all this time and even now, knowing that Gina was definitely out of the picture again). But Castle had persisted. It was, she had to admit, partly due to his persistence that he had come to know her as well as he did—and no, he had never given up.
"You're still here, aren't you? Even though you've been shot at more than once and generally faced a lot of danger because of working with me, even though you aren't a cop. And I wasn't exactly nice to you when you first started shadowing me."
He stared at her and she realized with a small flare of relief and satisfaction that at least, he no longer looked quite so grim, his eyes were more like their usual blue again. "I don't know if I'd say that," he finally responded. "I was a bit of a jackass to you at first and anyway, you ought to know by now that I'm pretty good at getting myself into trouble and you have saved me when I did."
She forced a small shrug. "Well, I think you still could have lost patience and given up on me but you haven't."
His expression softened and she saw something–something she did not–could not–put a name to flaring in his eyes. She felt her heart flutter and she suddenly realized she had, rather inadvertently, opened the door to his saying… something… actually talking about whatever it was that sometimes seemed to hum in the air between them–and she absolutely was not putting a label on it, shouldn't be admitting it even existed. It wasn't anything, at least not anything she wanted to think about right now. And she had a boyfriend, so it couldn't be anything anyway.
But then he blinked and looked down again and when he looked up, she saw that he had pasted on something approaching his usual smirk. "Well, they do say one should suffer for one's art so it's the sacrifice I make for my art."
"Your art, huh?" she drawled, falling into their usual banter with a sense of relief. "Very pretentious-sounding of you."
"Writing requires creativity and imagination. Ergo, it's art," he pretended to pontificate.
"If you say so," she mocked, "but you're not exactly Shakespeare or Tolstoy."
He made a face and any brightening of his expression vanished abruptly. "You're right, I'm not, and that seems only fitting considering I became a writer because of Damian–I'm who I am because of him and all this time, he was… a cold-blooded killer. Nothing good could come from someone like that."
She inwardly winced. There was just no end to the painful recollections. And she could only imagine how deeply this one cut because she knew that being a writer was who Castle was, not just what he did, and to be so betrayed by Damian, the first person who'd encouraged him in his writing, would shake his sense of self to its core. And she couldn't stand to see it. It just seemed so… wrong, like something against nature, like a blizzard in July, to have Castle, of all people, doubting himself like this.
"I think you're wrong about that," she told him.
He frowned at her. "Wrong about Damian being a killer?"
"No, you're wrong that you became a writer just because of him. I think you would always have ended up becoming a writer, even if you'd never met Damian. Even without him, I think someone somewhere would have recognized your talent. Being a writer is who you are, Castle, and that's not because of Damian or anyone else, it's because of you. You were the one who put in the time and effort to write, you put in the work to get better at it. You were the one who made yourself the successful writer you are today. Being a storyteller is just the way your mind works. Isn't that what you're always doing, coming up with a story to fit the evidence, even if it's a crazy story?" she gave him a small, faintly teasing smile.
His expression had eased, slowly, as he stared at her during this speech–and god, it really was something of a speech and not really like her but she supposed desperate times called for desperate measures. He tilted his head, a quizzical little smile curving his lips. "Do my ears deceive me or did you just pay me a compliment?"
She fought back a blush. "Shut up," she returned automatically. "Don't get used to it."
His smile faded as he sobered. "Thanks."
She really didn't know how he did it, how he could make just the one word sound eloquent. She forced a small shrug of feigned nonchalance. "I call it like I see it."
His lips quirked a little. "Yeah, you're pretty good at that."
He lifted his glass and this time, he sipped as usual and she saw with relief that his shoulders weren't quite slumped or as tense anymore. He looked more at ease, more like himself.
"So, you know, Lanie and Esposito are actually going out tonight," she offered, changing the subject.
"Really?" His eyes widened and then he grinned. "Going out on Valentine's Day and all, they really are getting to be a thing, then."
She returned his smile. "Yeah. Lanie plays things close to the vest and she keeps insisting it's just casual but I think it's just denial."
He snorted a little. "Espo's not much better since he still seems to think none of us know a thing."
"I think Espo thinks Ryan, at least, is practically living in his own little world since getting engaged so much so that Ryan wouldn't notice if he took out a billboard ad," she said wryly.
'Not even Ryan's that obtuse."
They laughed softly and then she mentioned something that Karpowski had said a few days ago and they settled into one of their casual, light conversations that somehow came so easily to them, although she noted that they both studiously avoided anything that might refer to the Westlake case or Damian.
She was almost finished with her beer when Castle twitched and pulled his phone out of his jacket, glancing at it, his expression softening in a way that made his explanatory, "It's Alexis," entirely redundant.
"Anything up with her?"
"She just texted to let me know that she's leaving now for her date and will be home later."
Oh, right, Alexis had a boyfriend and would therefore have plans tonight. She'd forgotten, been thinking that at least, Castle could go home to his daughter and even his mother and that would help too. "I take it everything's still going well with Alexis and Ashley."
He pulled a face. "Don't remind me. Anyway, don't you need to be heading out to get ready for your date?"
She glanced at her watch, hesitated, but– "Yeah, I probably should," she acknowledged. "Sorry to cut this short."
"It's fine," he told her and managed a small smile that wasn't convincing.
She did have a date and she knew Josh had gone to some trouble to switch shifts with other doctors and worked longer hours the last few days to get tonight off but faced with Castle, after the day he'd just had, she couldn't quell the flutter of something like guilt, to say nothing of reluctance, to be leaving him. Especially if he would just be going home to an empty loft, if Alexis had plans, although she wasn't sure about Martha.
"Thanks for the drink." He made a small gesture with his hand at the table and she knew what he meant was to thank her not only for the drink but for this whole conversation.
"Anytime."
They shrugged into their coats again and he again held the door open for her to leave.
"I can give you a ride home," she offered. It would be cutting it very close but they weren't that far from the loft so she could manage it.
"No, thanks, I think I'll walk, clear my head a little."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, it'll be fine." He pasted on another attempt at his usual nonchalant smile but it didn't reach his eyes and she knew that no matter the good humor of their later conversation, he wasn't entirely himself yet. And of course he wasn't; a betrayal like Damian's would not be so easy to get over.
She abruptly felt like a worm, lower than a worm. A terrible friend. How could she just abandon her best friend when he'd just been disillusioned so painfully? Wait, what? Since when was Castle her best friend? But even as she thought it, she knew it was, somehow, true. She didn't know when it had happened but yes, at some point, that was what Castle had become, even notwithstanding Lanie. He was the first person she wanted to talk to about just about anything, was, apart from her dad, the person that she somehow felt she knew the best and who knew her.
And so what if he was? It didn't mean anything more than just that. They were friends, that was all.
"Will Martha be home?" she didn't know why she asked except she suddenly had to know, had to be sure.
He looked faintly surprised. "No, she has plans too and I make it a point not to ask for details."
"Oh, okay." So he really would be going back to an empty house. She herself might retreat into solitude when troubled but Castle wasn't like her; he needed people and today, she thought that was probably more true than ever. Needed to be around people he trusted. And instead, he would be returning to an empty house, to solitude.
She hated the thought.
And so what if she did? She still had a date–and a boyfriend.
They both hesitated, looking at each other, although she didn't know what he might see in her expression and she wasn't willing to try to identify what might be in his. And then he stepped back, raising a hand. "Have a good night, Beckett. Thanks again for all this." He waved a hand in a vague gesture to encompass the door to O'Toole's and everything that had just occurred inside.
"Night. And Castle?"
He glanced back at her and she managed a smile, hoped it looked casual. "Happy Valentine's Day."
If she'd been wanting to make him smile, it didn't work although his lips twitched a little but his shoulders lowered slightly. "Yeah, you too."
And then he turned and walked away and she watched him go for a long moment, fighting a stupid urge to call him back. She had no reason to feel guilty, none. He knew she had a boyfriend and a date to go to and he was even the one who had made the suggestion they call it a night so she could go get ready for it. So it was fine, nothing wrong at all.
She finally forced herself to turn and walk towards her car, telling herself everything was fine but for all that, she was conscious of a vague, niggling sense of dissatisfaction.
~To be continued…~
A/N 2: Thank you to all readers and reviewers.