The Wonder: 1

A/N: Watershed, from Season5, was another of those crossroads episodes that left me scratching my head. I never begrudged Kate Beckett for wanted more out of her career, for wanting to achieve more. Neither did Castle. I just thought it was so consistent with her history to exclude Castle from the entire decision process until her hand was forced. And though I love these two together, it is another of those scenarios where I thought he should have reacted differently. So, in this new AU, we go in that 'slightly' different direction than what unfolded in the show, and see where it takes us.

DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

Kate Beckett's Apartment, May 14, 2013

Richard Castle's hands are starting to shake, as he stares at the crumpled boarding pass in his hand. He shakes his head, and the movement is subtle, almost imperceptible.

"I should have known this was too good to be true," he thinks to himself. Immediately, he brushes the thought away.

"Give her a chance . . . I've been known to over-react."

He holds the boarding pass out, asking the question, and dreading the answer that he knows is coming. She won't sit here and lie to him. Not to his face. She wouldn't do that. Not again.

Would she?

"You fly to D.C. yesterday?"

She takes a breath. "Here we go," she thinks.

"Yes, I did."

She offers nothing more. No explanation of the trip. No explanation of why she hid the trip from him. It's not like she has to check in with him, but he thought – incorrectly, it seems – that just simple courtesy would have caused her to say something.

So he has to ask.

"Why?"

It's the simplest, most damning question anyone can ask. One single, dangerous word. A word usually filled with so much more than a single sentence will suffice. But he has to ask.

"I was invited down for an interview."

Okay, that doesn't sound too bad. He isn't surprised that someone outside the 12th Precinct would see value in Kate Beckett.

"What kind of interview?" he asks, genuinely curious, but also a little concerned. Not concerned that she is out interviewing. But concerned that this is how he is finding out about it. Concerned that she would hide this from him. She didn't need to hide this. This is good news for her.

She stares at him, never breaking eye contact. She knows this is important, and she knows this is absolutely not how she wanted him to find out about this. She should have said something earlier. Of course, she should have. Everything is always that obvious after the fact.

"For a position with the Federal Task Force," she responds, her voice clear and strong. This is good news, this is a great opportunity for her.

"I'm sorry," he says, and she knows it's on now. Any thought, any hope that she had that this would be a quick and easy conversation, a quick discussion and a quicker kiss and make up . . . those hopes are gone with those two words. She sees it in his eyes. The hurt. The confusion. But she doesn't understand why they are there.

Not yet.

"I'm sorry . . . you interviewed for another job . . . in another city," he says. "And you didn't tell me about it?"

"Well, you make it sound bad when you say it like that," she thinks to herself, defensively. Now, her natural evolved self-preservation kicks in and takes over the conversation.

"I didn't tell you about it because it was just an interview," she says, "and I knew that you would be upset."

"Your damn right I'm upset," he says, and that's when everything falls apart. An entire year of kisses, hands held, romantic dinners, fantastic lovemaking, even better sex . . . an entire year of brilliant theories together, of trips taken, of cases closed.

All in the rear view mirror. For both of them.

"Castle, I just wanted to see what was out there . . ." she says, now with a slight bit of tension in her voice. Perhaps she can plead to his logic. His heart is hurting. She should have known it would. Appeal to his head, to his logic.

". . . what's wrong with that?" she asks.

He can't believe the question. She can't be this dense. She can't be this selfish. And it hits him. Yeah, she can be. She has been before.

"What's wrong with it is that you hid it from me," he tells her, shaking his head. "In fact, you lied about it."

He pauses, and for the first time, the hurt breaks free and shows itself in his words and in his face.

"I wouldn't do that to you."

"Castle, this isn't about you. This is about me. This is about my life."

Hours later, as she revisits the conversation in her head, this is the one thing she wishes she could take back. As the words leave her mouth, she sees the damage being done, instantaneously. He looks at her incredulously. Is she kidding? She must be kidding. It's happening all over again. Lying when it suits her.

And it's not about him?

Of course not. It's never about him. It's never been about him. It's always been about her mother; about when she's ready; about her feelings; about her secrets. It's never been about him. But he realizes that it's not even about them. Only her. Always only her. Do 'they' mean anything to her at all?

His mind is racing now. He feels foolish. A dangerous place for a man to be. Hurtful, stupid things come out of the mouth of a foolish-feeling man. He starts to say something – then catches himself. Another word is ready to come forth, but he squashes that one also. Finally, defeated, he asks the question that isn't really what he wants to know. But it will keep the conversation going.

"So you're seriously considering this?" he says, as a statement more than a question.

"Yes, this is a wonderful opportunity," she says. Perhaps he's starting to see the light here. Perhaps there is a chance, yet. "It will be a chance to do more."

"Without me," he says.

Kate is slowly becoming more exasperated. This isn't going well at all. This is exactly why she didn't say anything up to now.

"Castle, please don't do this," she says. "Please don't make this about us."

And thus, the final shoe falls. For a minute, it is almost two years ago all over again. He's back in her hospital room, being summarily dismissed, as she lies and tells him she doesn't remember anything, she tells him that she'll call him.

"I'm sorry," he says, now finally beyond just the hurt and confusion and the aggravation. Now the anger is here. "Tell me how this isn't about us," he says, emphatically.

"You get this job, you move to D.C. I'll never see you. That's pretty much the end of our relationship isn't it."

Okay, that's a reach, an over-exaggeration. Never see her? Still, he is hurting and he is pissed off; an unhealthy combination.

"You don't know that," she tells him, now clearly frustrated. She pauses, then adds, "and I probably won't get the job anyway."

"That's not the point," he tells her, now back on track. "The point is . . . you knew what this could mean," he states, and now the realization of what this means starts to really hit him, as the words flow from his mouth.

"And it never occurred to you to include me," he says. And that's the gist of it. That's the problem. Her and her damn secrets. He has experienced those secrets first hand. He idly wonders just how long it would have been before she told him about this opportunity had he not found her boarding pass. She lied for almost a year before. She's good at this. She's good at secrets.

"Damn her, this should have been great news," he thinks to himself. "We should have been celebrating an opportunity like this . . . drawing up pros and cons in bed, wine glasses in hand, planning the next steps in our future together . . ."

And that's when it hits him. Oh God, it's even worse . . .

"Or worse," he says with horrifying realization. "It did occur to you, and you chose not to," he says softly. "Now what does that say about us."

He's done now. He has to get out of there. He knows his temper, and he is just ready to explode. He will say things – things that a simple 'I am sorry' won't heal. Better to choose flight at this point. He grabs his jacket, and heads to the door.

"Not much if you ask me," he says, settling for a simple retreat.

"Castle," Kate says, trying to pull him back. This isn't how she wants to leave this. Unfinished.

"I can't be here right now," he says, and even he knows he sounds like a little boy who has just taken his ball, ready to go home. But he is angry – justifiably so. Better to react like a little kid than an angry man who lashes out – physically or emotionally.

He walks out, wondering how much damage they have done.

Two Days Later, at a Familiar Swing Set, in the park, May 16, 2013

He sits on one of the swing sets, waiting for her to arrive. She called him about half an hour ago, saying they needed to talk.

"Understatement of the century," he thinks. "That's certainly not going in the book."

Truthfully, he's not sure how this is going to go. His conversation yesterday with Martha Rogers wasn't all that helpful. She has made some solid points, sure.

No, they haven't had any serious conversations about their future.

No, they haven't made any serious plans about their future.

But that's no excuse for lying. That's no excuse for secrets. If his mother is trying to tell him that until two people fully commit, then lying is okay, secrets are okay, those things don't matter "until you put a ring on her . . ."

If that's what she is saying, well, hell, no wonder his mother never re-married. That's no way to develop a loving, trusting relationship. Yeah, he's twice divorced, but come on, even he knows that much.

She did make a good point, though. Perhaps he has been holding back all this time. Perhaps he really hasn't expected it to work out, long-term. God knows he loves her. But maybe deep, deep down, he really hasn't trusted her. And isn't this a good reason why he's never fully committed to her, as Martha had said?

He rubs his hands together, and on the tight swing, which he barely fits into, by the way, he can feel the small box in his inside jacket pocket, rubbing against his chest.

He's really not sure which way this is going to go yet.

He feels her walking to him – literally feels her presence – before he sees her out of the corner of his eye. For some reason, he can't even bring himself to look at her. He sees the soft smile she tries to offer – again, out of the corner of his eye. Her peace offering. It's always worked. It's always melted him, like wax, like butter.

Not today. It's now – at this point – that his decision crystalizes for him.

She's walking slowly to him, and reaching him, sits on the swing next to him. He continues staring ahead, wringing his hands in his lap.

She's not sure what to make of this. She's tried smiling, and that hasn't worked. She tries another approach.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "I shouldn't have kept secrets," she admits, and she means it. She knows it is dangerous for them. She lied to him, kept a dark secret for almost a year. To make matters worse, he harbored his own secret during that time as well. If there are two people who should know the dangers that secrets hold, it's these two.

Yet here they are.

So yeah, she means it when she tells him.

"I shouldn't have kept secrets."

"It's who you are," he says simply, and they both can see the handwriting scratching the air now. She sucks in a quick breath, while he lets a breath fly out that he didn't realize he was holding.

"You don't let people in," he tells her. "I've had to scratch and claw for every inch," he says, regret oozing with each word.

"Castle-"

"Please, let me finish," he tells her.

She hates this. It's the most important conversation of her life, and she has lost complete control of it. She called and told him they needed to talk. She has the whole script written out in her head. But he's taken her script and tossed it to the wind.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking about us . . . about our relationship, what we have," he says, wistfully, and still – dammit – not looking at her.

"Where we're headed," he pauses. "I've decided I want more. We both deserve more."

She'll make it easy. Easy for both of them.

"I agree," she says, with sad resignation.

"This is a fantastic opportunity for you," he tells her, finally – finally looking at her, giving her a glimpse of those blue eyes she longs for. Looking at her is difficult. She is so gorgeous. He always gets lost in those eyes, in that smile. It has been such a great year. The box in his pocket calls him, it screams at him for freedom, for release.

He pulls his jacket tighter.

"Did you get the job?" he asks.

"Yes," she answers – and they don't break eye contact. She tries a smile again. Maybe . . .

He smiles back – it's small, it's not the Castle bright burner, but it is there. It's something.

"Take it. You deserve it. You need it. Getting away from New York is probably a good thing right now," he tells her. "You've accomplished everything you can at the 12th. And you're right, you can do so much more. You can do good things, better things."

"Thank you, Castle," she tells him, genuinely surprised and grateful at the generous tone he offers to her, the kind words spoken honestly.

"I really want to take it, I really do," she says. "But I-"

"No buts, Kate," he interrupts. "Take it. There's nothing more important for you, to you, than this."

Her face flushes quickly, reddening not with anger, but with frustration. He can't put words in her mouth. He can't do this, he can't make this decision for her.

"That's not true –"

"It is, Kate. It is," he tells her.

It's disarming to her because this isn't the angry Castle from a couple of days ago. This isn't even the hurt Castle, or the disappointed Castle. It's almost like he . . . no, it can't be that. Surely he still cares about her . . .

"Kate, you were ready to make this decision without me. You got on a plane, took an interview, made your internal list of pros and cons, thought it out back and forth . . . all without me," he tells her. Hearing it put in such succinct terms tears at her. She sees the truth in his words.

"I hate that, I wish it weren't so . . . but it is what it is. And you are who you are . . . and I am who I am," he says, and finally a bit of emotion cracks through. Her heart is breaking.

So is his.

"You will always have your secrets, those things secret places where I want to be, where I think I belong . . . and I will always fight to get in there . . . and we will always fight about those secrets."

He stands now, and he pulls his jacket closed, fastening the buttons. The tightness of the box on his chest hurts. It is a reminder of what was. Of what might have been. Of what might be someday.

But not today.

"Or we can agree that it's time for you to move on to the next step in your great journey. A journey that is good for you, a journey that you deserve."

"What about you, Rick?" she asks, her eyes moist, as she can see the glistening in his eyes as well. "What about –"

"It's like you said the other day," he states, finality in his tone. "This isn't about me. This is about you, about your life. Maybe someday, someone will be a bigger, deeper part of that life. Maybe that someone will be me," he tells her as she stands and faces him.

He stretches his arms out, pulling her into a hug. He pulls back, and bends to kiss her. It's soft. Not very deep, but it lingers. He knows this will be the last time in a long while – perhaps ever, that he tastes these lips, and so he draws it out. She knows it as well, and so she lingers as well, and fights back a sob as she feels a tear drop on her face, realizing the tear is not her own. She opens her mouth, pushing her tongue forward –

And he breaks the embrace. That intimate invasion is not one he will allow. Not now. Not anymore. It's not who they are now. He wants more. He deserves more. So does she, and he knows she will realize this and believe it soon enough.

"Maybe that someone will be me," he repeats. "But not today. I love you, Kate. I know you will do well," he tells her.

And step by step, she watches him walk away.

"Castle," she tries to call out to him, but the single word catches in her throat, coming out as strangled, garbled nonsense.

Step by step, he walks away, across the street, and hails a cab.

Kate steps backward, and falls back into the swing. Her feet dangle along the ground, her mind numb – with no thoughts. For a minute she sits there, her momentum swinging her back and forth, back and forth.

One minute becomes two, and two becomes five. With each passing minute, the fog in her head lifts. He's right. It is a great opportunity. She deserves this. And he deserves more than she has just given him. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps these secrets she manages to keep are just a part of who she is.

She reaches into her purse, pulling out her cell phone, pulling up recent calls. She finds the latest entry for 'A Freedman' and punches the SEND button. She hears two rings before he answers.

"Deputy Director Anthony Freedman."

"Director Freedman, this is Detective Beckett in New York," she says, and then pauses for a few seconds. "When would you like me to start?"