Ephemeris, Ch. 4-A post-For Better or Worse (6 x 23) Caskett multi-chap WIP
Title: Ephemeris, Ch. 4
WC: ~1900 this chapter, ~7900 so far
Summary: "But it's only in this moment that it's clear to her. Stupid and distracted and done, she realizes she's been expecting him all along."
She stops for coffee. She's less than an hour from the house, but her eyes have that stark, staring feeling that signals real fatigue.
The car wheels crunch over the gravel of the parking lot. It takes her a minute to recognize the thump of déjà vu against her skull. She's been here before. Once. They were here together.
Beckett. Really?
He'd been annoyed. Little boy frustrated in a way that had long since become unusual. She'd only noticed the shadows under his eyes as they pulled in under the sickly orange of the parking lot lights.
Yes, Castle. Really.
But we're close.
Not so close you and this fine leather interior won't regret not stopping.
That had gotten a laugh, but he wouldn't come in. Unusual. He'd stood by the car kicking at the gravel. Impatient all out of proportion to a five-minute delay. She'd brought him coffee. An apologetic gesture that left him the one looking contrite.
What's your hurry?
She'd held on to his sleeve as he took the cup from her, and he'd mustered up a wicked grin. It was a little threadbare, though. It had been a long few weeks.
Got a date with weekend Beckett. Hamptons Beckett.
And you like her best.
The words had come without permission. A quick unexpected slide into the kind of insecurity that she rarely visits any more. But she'd been tired. He'd been tired. He'd set the coffee cup on the roof of the car and swept her into his arms, landing his mouth hard at the base of her throat and dragging his lips up to kiss her.
I love every Beckett. Every single one.
She rests her head on the wheel now. It's a mistake and it's not. Stopping here. She needs the coffee. She needs a few minutes to breathe. But the memory hits hard. Unexpected. This place they spent five minutes months ago, where she misses even the small, stumbling moments between them.
She steadies herself. Looks at the clock and realizes more time than she'd like has already slipped by. She fires off a text and the window bounces a reply almost immediately. Alexis telling her to be safe. Which hopefully means Martha is getting some actual sleep.
The woman at the register smiles. It's all-purpose at first. Something generic for customers, but then her brow wrinkles. Like she knows Kate, but can't quite place her. Kate shoves the money across the counter. She grabs the cup and doesn't wait for change. The gesture borders on rude, but she's not up for this right now.
It was a big story, even for here. Even for not quite an hour from real money and the scandals that come with it. People say the strangest things when recognition hits. They run the gamut from overly familiar sympathy to snide remarks and compliments on the dress. She's not up for it. Her tragedy lived in public.
She pushes her way out through the door, wincing at the jangling bell. Wincing as coffee slops over her hand.
She's distracted as she slides back into the driver's seat. By exhaustion and eagerness. The burn of coffee on her tongue and the echo of Martha's constant pleas that she take the train instead, or let them come to her. By the little she'll have to tell when she gets to the house. Definitely not Bracken. That's what Ryan says, and it's too little. One thing struck off a list that's too short already.
She knows they want her there for herself alone.
We're family, Kate.
They both want her there, and she wants to be with them, whether there's news or not. Still, it's too little.
She's distracted.
Stupid.
It's the first thing she thinks when she hears the click directly behind her left ear. Details crowd in. Warning signs that flare too late. A barely flickering sodium light that had been burning bright when she parked under it. A loop of seatbelt she knows she didn't close the door on.
You.
That's the second thing she thinks when her eyes flick to the mirror and she sees a glint of silver hair. The only thing really visible in the thick shadows thrown by a black- brimmed cap, but she searches the darkness anyway, eager to find for some resemblance. Something of Castle in him.
"Took you long enough."
She says it out loud. The third thing she thinks. Because she's been expecting him. He's come up, of course. Between her and Martha. Something sour in both their mouths. Something they've been too reluctant to push on.
Darling, do you think?
I don't know. How would we even . . .?
But it's only in this moment that it's clear to her. Stupid and distracted and done, she realizes she's been expecting him all along.
"Kate. I was hoping this wouldn't be necessary."
It's an unpleasant sizzle right through the middle of her. The way he dismisses her, of course, but most of all, she hates the sound of her own name on his tongue. She won't correct him, though. Pieces of her slot into place. It's clear how this will go-how this was always going to go-and her teeth come together in a terrible grin that she hides. Unshakeable focus. She'll give him nothing.
"What do you know?"
She hears him shift on the seat. A telling, uncomfortable movement in the close silence of the darkened car. He wasn't expecting the direct question. He'd been counting on the cloak-and-dagger tactics to throw her. The click of the safety on his gun. Really? He thinks he's on offense, and she wants to smile. She wants to show her teeth. But she stares straight ahead. It's been weeks and he's showing his face for the first time now? Here and like this? Nothing. He gets nothing.
"I know my son is better off dead."
It's bland. Pleasant and in control. Confident. Anderson Cross, rather than the pale imitation of a father she'd met later. Cool, except for the one syllable that makes it all a mistake.
Son is a mistake. It makes her think of an awkward hug. One that meant something to Castle, even as late in the game as that, it meant something. But for him it was just a maneuver. Playing the daddy card now is a mistake.
"I know that's not a threat." The words come in real time. Almost before the thoughts that call them up and send them out. There's a strange, guiding certainty to everything she says. Everything she will say. "Cross, is it?"
"You can call me . . ."
"Actually, I don't need to call you anything." She cuts him off. That throws him, too. His tongue hits his teeth. She presses. "Tell me. You know who did this."
"That isn't important." His voice is level. Controlled. But there's a testy note underneath that she recognizes. He's annoyed.
Good. Annoyed is good for her and she knows, unerringly, how to keep him right there. She laughs. Twists at it. "Yeah. You'll forgive me if I question your priorities."
It hits the mark. He snaps at her. "My priorities are to keep my son and the people he loves safe. His mother. His daughter. You."
He leans forward like he's hoping to smell fear rolling off her. As if he can't believe this isn't working and he wants a closer look. It's another little lapse in control. She's not in a position to enjoy it. She's frozen, a single word echoing through every cell in her body. She almost turns. She almost goes over the seat at him, gun or no gun. Assassin or spy or whatever the hell he is today.
"Keep." She chokes on it. It pulls every last molecule of air from her lungs until she's leaning hard into the steering wheel, her vision black at the edges. "Keep him safe. He's alive." Her eyes open wide, then, like she can let it all in at once. Realization. Certainty. "You have him."
She gives too much away. Far too much in just those few words. She hears him lean back. She feels that balance shift.
"Who has him now-where he is-that no longer matters to you." There's a flatness to his voice. A total absence of warmth that's unnerving, not on its own, but in the echoes of Castle she hears. Familiar timbre and tone, just a few decades further along. Like and completely unlike. "All you need to know is the threat-to him and to all of you-is over so long as Richard stays dead. Perception is everything, Kate. You're going to leave this alone."
She closes her eyes. Centers herself again, pushing everything to the edges but the knowledge that he's alive.
I keep making the mistake of thinking he's family. But he's not. You are.
There's time enough to fall apart later. Castle is alive.
"You can't really believe that's a possibility." Her eyes snap open. She fixes her gaze on the rearview mirror. Steady again. She lets her fingers come to rest on the bottom of the wheel and her shoulders settle. "You can't believe there's a chance in hell that I will not rip the world apart until I bring him home."
"What I believe, Kate . . ." He draws out the vowel and bites off the t. It strikes her that he's more than just annoyed. He's spun. By her. By the fact that he can't intimidate her. By more than that and she needs to pay attention. She needs to take in every detail, and they're slipping through her fingers even now. " . . . is that you will do whatever it takes to keep Richard's family safe. I believe you know that's what he would want you to do."
"What he wouldwant me to do?" She does show her teeth now. "That's an interesting choice of words. You've spent a grand total of 40 minutes in 40 years with Castle, and you're going to tell me what he would want?"
He's silent. Unmoving. He's trying to regroup, but the exasperation is thick around him. She doesn't need to see any more than the rigid silhouette of his shoulders to know that.
When he speaks again, it's different. Quieter and less controlled. A different tack, now. He's playing at vulnerable. Unguarded with an edge of command underneath.
"Richard once told me that if I knew him at all, I knew he'd do anything to save his family."
He lets the slightest waver creep into his voice, right at the end. It's rehearsed. Every beat is weighed and practiced and considered. Martha might give it a six out of ten. Kate frowns hard against the upward quirk of the corner of her mouth.
"If you knew his family at all, you'd know we'd do anything to save him." She slips the key into the ignition. She turns it, and his sharp intake of breath isn't quite lost as the radio kicks in and music fills the space. "Now get the hell out of my car."
A/N: Again, thank you to those reading and offering encouragement.