This is set post-"47 Seconds" and pre-"The Limey". It's a terrible, terrible story, and doesn't end at all happy. I'm not pleased with the product, but it satisfied its goal at the time (getting some angst down on paper as to sufficiently exhaust me and allow me to FINALLY fall asleep at 3:30 am).
But since it's kind of complete, and I'm never going to touch it again, I figured I might as well share it with all of you.
Kate Beckett pulls on her coat, throwing a last look behind her at her partner. Rick Castle is determinedly looking away, and it confirms this feeling she has of things being off. He had snapped during the interrogation, biting off harsh words. And now he turned down her invitation to drinks, marking a first in their partnership.
She has only begun to find solid ground in the aftermath of her tragedy. Her therapist says this is normal, to have a quest for anything sturdy, anything steadfast to hold onto. Castle is her rock, and his love is the end goal. Her therapist has been trying to get her to say it aloud for days, but she dances around it – he's my partner, he's just this guy – but if Beckett's telling the truth…
She loves him.
That love was her rock. That was her solid ground. That was her North Star. And it's slipping away.
She swallows and pushes in her chair, picking up her purse from the ground and slinging it onto her shoulder. The adrenaline and pain flows strongly through her vein, and she needs to escape this mess in her mind, the unrest in her body. Besides, she had already brought up drinks, hadn't she? No harm in partaking in decompression alone.
She sits at the bar for fifteen minutes, nursing her first beer. When she finishes, a guy offers to buy her another. Instead, she orders a shot of whiskey. The taste of smoke twists around her tongue before burning its way to her core. A second shot is offered, before a third and a fourth.
The world fades to a more blurred facsimile of itself, and if she wanted to, she could fight off this alcohol-induced haze. But she doesn't want to, because she wants to lose the pain in the fog. The slurred thoughts prevent her from over-analyzing, as the words spoken by Castle repeat in cycles, floating through her mind.
"Well, that's what your friend Jesse would call sinning by silence. It's not smart. It's not brave. It's just cowardly."
"Nothing. Nothing important anyway."
"I'm gonna head home. Good night."
No. Kate Beckett is no idiot. Something was up, and she wanted answers, damn it. When a fifth shot is offered, she takes it before slamming the shot glass onto the bar's counter with resolution.
She wants answers.
And pride and intelligence and logic and the time be damned. She was going to get her answers.
Hailing a cab to Castle's apartment, she considers her tactics, but logic is fickle. Beckett cannot hold the warm comfort of alcohol around her and her mind, another wall between her and life, and process logic as well, so she gives up, leaning back, watching the city lights flash by.
Because, fuck it. There is no right answer here, and if there is one, Beckett hasn't found it yet with her precious logic and damn it, she loves Castle, and if that's not enough…
Fuck that fucking therapist with his fucking questions. Her world shifted, she leaned on Castle, and now he's gone somewhere and she can't explain it. And it's all because of that blasted therapist! He told her to trust him, to let him into her heart! Look where that's left her! Drunk in the back of a taxi! Fucking world!
Not even alcohol could shake the pit of anger at the base of her stomach, this self-righteous anger of "how could Castle?" and "I needed him". In the back of her mind, Beckett recognizes the unreasonableness of this, but the alcohol helps make it less pertinent, allows her to ignore it a little more.
She charges into Castle's building, doorman and security waving her through without a thought, and she slides into the elevator. There is no game plan. There is only this moment. Just her and the door. A knock, then silence. She huffs in annoyance, gives it a couple of minutes, before turning back to the elevator. The door opens as she moved, and she whirls around.
It's him.
It is a mixture of alcohol and pure emotion that causes her to stagger forward and push one finger hard into Castle's chest. "Why?"
He looks at her, searching, smelling the air. "Beckett, are you drunk?"
"Not drunk, Castle. Just curious. Why?" He wouldn't move, wouldn't let her come in and it's a blow, because she's been in his place so many times, so often. The hurt manifests itself as words, flowing out of her mouth uncensored. "Why the sin by silence, the nothing important, the no drinks? Why?"
"Beckett, I'm not talking to you about this when you are drunk. Go home." He pushes her a little, not hard, but enough to force her off balance, back into the hallway. The door shuts. Her head snaps back like it had hit her, before she stumbles forward, forehead against the cool wood. Her hands palmed the door, pushing in, searching for purchase.
"Castle! Castle, come on. Castle, I need to know why. Just tell me Castle." The door doesn't budge, and she's sliding down it, awkward, uncoordinated, but her forehead lies against the door, legs splayed to either side. Her hands curl into fists against the grain of the wood. "Fuck…" She thought she might throw up with the pain ripping through her. Castle's never thrown her out before, never spoken in such clipped tones. "Fuck." A few frustrated tears escape her eyes, more than anything she feels so tired. The exhaustion seeps into her bones, dragging the life from her. She's just so very tired of it all; she just needs to sleep forever. She drifts into slumber, the alcohol combining with the sorrow into nightmares she cannot escape.
Castle's sitting on the other side of the door, his back against it. He can hear when she stops speaking, can feel when she slips into sleep.
It's forty five minutes after she falls asleep that the door opens and she slumps forward, still in deep alcohol-addled sleep. Castle stares at her for a minute, undisguised pain written on his face. It's forty seven minutes after she falls asleep when he bends to pick her up, carrying her to the sofa in the living room. It's fifty one minutes after she falls asleep when she is wrapped in blankets, Castle considering her for a moment before retreating to his room.
It's five hours later when she wakes, stomach flipping as she sits up, memories rushing back a moment later. She folds the blankets, courteous even as her body is primed and ready to escape. It's exactly five hours and seven minutes after she fell asleep at Castle's doorstep when she crosses over that same threshold in reverse, without answers, without hope, and without pride.
It's seven hours later when the two shake hands in the precinct, an unspoken promise to pretend the night's events never occurred. It's eight and a half hours later when Colin Hunt arrives and Castle's mood sours once more.
This time, Beckett does all she can to ignore it.
Author's Notes: Reviews are appreciated, but I know it's rubbish and kind of OOC, and basically- be nice about how much you tell me it sucks, because believe me, there's nothing you can think about this piece that I haven't already thought.
Stupid writing. Why did I ever decide to do it?