Chapter Text
There’s really no point in rushing. Kate tells herself that when the horn blares and the tires squeal as she steps out from between cars to cross the street in the middle of the block. The waist-level grill of the SUV is close enough that she feels the heat rolling off it. She raises a hand in apology and gets a middle finger for her trouble, and it's silly, because there's really no point in rushing.
She’s only late in her own mind. He’s not expecting her. They’re not expecting her, and that’s the trouble. It’s what has her dashing around tourists and living the high-risk life of the New York jaywalker. It’s why she smiles and calls out a grateful thank you as she sails by Eduardo when he buzzes her through the building's outer doors and saves her the trouble of fishing out her keys. It’s why she takes the stairs, because they’re not expecting her, but she’d really planned on being home by now.
She’s as quiet as she can be in the hallway. The days have been chaos lately, and the last thing she wants is to add to it. She turns the key in the lock and braces, but the door opens on to a tranquil scene, not exactly neat, but quiet, and it's unexpected enough that she has a telling instant of panic. She thinks they're gone. That there’s really something wrong, or worse, this isn't her life at all. It gives way to confusion as she spies movement on the couch. A surprising red head turning toward her in surprise.
"Katherine! You're home."
An instant later, a dark head pops up over the back of the couch, accompanied by a sleepy voice that matches Martha's lilt exactly. "Mama! Du home.”
"She's much better," Martha runs a sure hand lightly down Madeleine's back as she clings to Kate. "Aren't you, darling?"
"I not detter," the little girl insists, her lusty shout giving lie to the words. Her face crumples, though, and her voice drops to a whisper as she buries her cheek against her mother's neck. "Daddy not detter."
"Castle?" Kate peers over the unruly curls at Martha, not really needing confirmation. “I knew he'd caught it. He said he was fine. . ."
"He said the same thing to me, right before he collapsed on to the bed.” Martha falls back into the couch cushions with a dramatic flair that draws a throaty chuckle from Madeleine.
“CLAPSE!” she echoes, drawing back only to let herself fall forward again with bruising force on to Kate’s rib cage. “Daddy CLAPSE!”
“He did, sweetie.” Kate tightens the arm around her waist, trying to keep her daughter still long enough to satisfy herself that her skin really is cooler today. Trying to feel like she has some grasp on the state of things. “And he didn’t call Mama.”
“He was about to.” Martha rests a hand on her shoulder, just briefly, like she can pull the string of knots up and out with the reassurance, and maybe she can. Nearly three years in, it’s not that Kate isn’t grateful for Martha. For Alexis and her own dad and the little army of more-than-willing back-up they have around them. It’s not that at all, and mercifully, the older woman’s touch says she knows that. “But I was dropping off a get-well present for someone.”
“A present.” There’s a part of her that wants to groan. She’s spoiled. Madeleine is so spoiled. And yet, she isn’t. She's generous in her own right and greets every single thing that comes her way with wonder. With delight and absolutely nothing like entitlement. No more now than ever, so Kate ducks her head to whisper in the ear pressed to her chest. “Did Gram bring you a present?”
“My momo!” Madeleine squirms her way out of her mother’s arms, landing heavily on the floor to turn in a circle. The skirt of her short silk robe flares out smartly. “My momo!”
“A kimono!” Kate laughs at the clash of peach and silvery lavender with the red and royal blue of her Spider-Man pajamas peeking out below. “Well you must feel better with a beautiful kimono like that, Mad One.”
She stops twirling abruptly. A worried look slides quickly across the rosy flush of her face before she presses her lips together and glares at her mother and grandmother in turn. A Beckett Glare, Castle always insists, though her eyes are wide and blue.
“I not detter.” She shakes her head sadly. She lets her knees go weak and crumples perfectly—dramatically—to the couch again. “I sick,” she adds, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead.
“Gestures are like accessories, kiddo.” Martha laughs, tugging at the bare toes that drum against her thigh as Madeleine squirms her way across her mother’s lap. “Always leave one behind.”
“It’s a little much,” Kate agrees, though her palm briefly comes to rest on the girl’s chest, relief creeping through her with the easy rise and fall. “Are you sure you’re not a little better?” The dark head rocks vigorously from side to side. "That's too bad. I could use your help taking care of Daddy, but if you're not better, you should probably be tucked up in bed . . ."
"No bed," she protests instantly. A stubborn frown creases her forehead, and that, at least, is one-hundred per cent Castle. "I help." She pats Kate's arm, obstinacy turning to gentle sorrow, and that’s Castle, too. Her tender heartedness. "Daddy sick, Mama. I help.”
“I really don’t mind staying a while.” Martha is still protesting. She's been on her way out the door for twenty minutes, and Kate's caught somewhere between tempted and exasperated by it. “I don’t think we made it a quarter of the way through our discussion of Heliotrope’s wardrobe . . .”
“Leelio!” Madeleine shrieks. She bounces up on her knees to hang over the back of the couch. “Mama, Leelio got lots momos.”
“Does she now?” Kate arches an eyebrow at Martha. “Lots of kimonos?”
"Save that look for your better half, dear," she chuckles. "It was a valiant effort on Richard's part, but I think the fever had set in by the time Heliotrope's kindergarten class headed to Japan."
"Japan?" The bundle of scarves and gloves and dress-up things she's plucked from every possible surface nearly slips from Kate's arms.
"ISLANS, Mama," Madeleine supplies helpfully from the corner of the couch. She's resting on sufferance until her mother makes some headway on the chaos that the first floor of the loft has devolved into over the course of the last week. "Far, far, far," she adds, stretching her arms as wide as they'll go to demonstrate. "We go, though." She hunkers back down into her blanket, wriggling with happiness at the thought. "Daddy say. We all go see Leelio and momos and da car."
"The car?"
The echo is as much self-preservation as perplexity. Japan. Her knees are weak at the thought of trying to answer an endless barrage of questions about the fish and fowl and furry woodland creatures of a place she's never been. That driving, relentless curiosity is her as much as it is Castle, and still her knees are weak.
"The car," she says again. She looks to Martha, but her mother-in-law is suddenly all air kisses and urgency.
"And on that note . . . "
"Martha!" Her tone is sharp, her voice raised to compete with Madeleine's high-volume, rapid-fire chatter. "What car?"
"Jacquard, Katherine." Martha is entirely too amused as she backs into the hallway. "And that story is definitely Richard's to tell."
"Story?" Another echo. Another stab at self-preservation. The door shuts with an ominous-sounding snick. "Jacquard?"
"I tell, Mama." Madeleine is bouncing on her knees now, the blanket and rest forgotten. She smooths down the skirts of her kimono and pats the couch next to her, inviting, just like Castle. Exactly like Castle when she purses her lips, impatiently waiting for her mother to sit. "I tell."