.
"Love was a feeling completely bound up with color, like thousands of rainbows superimposed one on top of the other."
- Paulo Coelho
The first time that Richard Castle sees Kate Beckett, he's on the subway. He'd never seen her before, which means that she's either not from the city, or just doesn't usually ride this line at this time of the day. She looks confident, her feet are grounded and solid, yet follow each jolt with ease, and doesn't check the train line map above the door, which tells him that she actually must be from the city.
She's gorgeous.
Mile-long legs in tight dark jeans, a dark blue blouse under a gorgeous beige burberry trench accompanied by insanely high pumps. It's stylish, and yet casual- doesn't give out much on who she is. Her hair is long, loose bouncy chestnut waves that tumble past her shoulders in a whirlwind of autumn tones and shades. He stares at her for far too long for it to look unintentional, trying to meet her eyes - find out if she is the one. It's a futile attempt, a desperate experiment that he knows would most probably leave him sagging in disappointment. Thing is, he can see it.
Or at least, he thinks he can. It's weak, the color is not even really there - a diluted, adulterated shade that is so weak that he thinks it is in fact pink, not red. The color pink is one you're endowed with when you meet your newborn's eyes for the first time, but can also be a weakened red. He's heard of that all his life; red is the color everyone dreams to earn but rarely finds. It's said that, when in presence of a potential partner, the color can manifest itself - in a very subtle way you can almost miss. He's experienced that before, but it is only by meeting your soulmate's eyes that pink turns to red. To this day, he still ignores what that color looks like, only knows it's much stronger than pink.
Problem is, he knows it's no one around him, has met those strangers' eyes in the few minutes he's been on.
She is the only one, it can only be her.
She's facing the doors, and he doubts she can even see him in the corner of her eyes. He could simply stand, and approach her - he would know then. A lot of people desperate to find their other half don't hesitate to just go for it. He used to be one of them. But he's stuck, frozen on his seat, doesn't know that he can suffer through yet again the acid burn of deception; the wrenching pain that seizes your heart and twist it as if some unseeable force tries to tear it out of your chest. He's been through that enough times, has seen enough pink never turning to red to be wary of how reliable it is. He's been with women before, but while they had been good fits - it always ended fairly quickly. No one is supposed to grow old with someone who's not their soulmate, it doesn't happen. His former girlfriend, Meredith, was gorgeous and had fit the man he had been back then. They had had a three-month baby girl who had tragically died in her sleep, and from that moment he had never been the same and the couple hadn't survived. They no longer fit.
It's stupid.
He doesn't want that anymore, doesn't just want someone who temporarily fits. He wants, needs the real thing, but he's also aware that the chances are infinitely thin.
So, he does nothing and watches her leave, embraces the blank, sour destiny that stretches before his eyes like a boundless, arid land
The second time Castle sees her, he's sitting at a table at the far end of the coffee shop, facing the glass doors. Her hair is held up, today. A neat ponytail that swings cheerfully with each step she takes, lone strands of hair framing her face, softening the hard edges. His eyes linger on the black leather jacket and white t-shirt, the jeans that hug her taut legs. He can see even from here, the black and neat line that runs along her eyelashes. It's different than the last time, but not in the least bit less endearing. She looks sharp, holds her head high, but gives a soft smile to the barista. She's hard, but soft, gives him a contradictory picture he's dying to learn more about.
This time, he's not surprised when a pale pink comes to circle his vision like a blurry halo. He knows it's her.
The barista calls her name, and his lips quirk up as it swirls around in his mind. Kate Beckett.
He likes it, strong name - it suits her. He tries it, mouths it just loud enough for him to hear, simply to have a taste of it.
He can sense the moment her eyes shift in his direction, and as panic takes ahold of him- he cowardly drops his own gaze to his keyboard.
When he looks back up, she's gone.
He doesn't know if she realized it's him. If he's right, then she must know.
He sighs in a sound of self-pity and discouragement, and lets his fingers fix it.
In the story he writes, he doesn't look down.
He doesn't look down, and their gazes meet and fuse in an overwhelming connection that he feels running through his veins, the sheer relief blooming through his synapses in an awakening of senses; the blurry ring turning to a vibrant welcoming red, the hard wood of the table rough under his trembling fingers, the smell of coffee beans so strong and bitter he can taste it on his tongue, every chime of the door resonating in his eardrums.
In his story, he doesn't look down, and she smiles at him.
Castle opens his eyes to a strange darkness that rouses an unsettling feeling deep within him. He's never liked darkness, fear of the dark is anchored in his DNA. He's always made purposively sure to leave a crack in the curtains to let the soft glow of the street lamp seep into his bedroom, casting a comforting hue.
And yet, he wakes up and finds himself in an endless black hole, his lungs constricting upon themselves and obstructing the airway. His eyes span the room, his hands fist around the duvet as his chest erratically heaves, his mouth gaping and yet nothing coming out. Fear bounds his legs together as a cold sweat washes over him, leaving his hair standing on end all over his body.
The prevailing silence is stifling and deafening, leaves too much room to the self-evident truth he cannot face, nor accept.
He screws his eyes shut, presses the palm of his hands hard into his eyes sockets, but the flitting stars never come. He takes a deep gulp of breath that slips out of his mouth around a shuddering sound.
It can't be.
"Mother!" It's raw, scratches harshly at his throat. The hoarse sound desperate, and slightly hysterical, his chest bursting with it.
He doesn't know what time it is, day or night.
His nostrils flare when he throws his legs down the side of his bed, swallows past the lump in his tight throat. He hears a commotion from his study before the sound of his door slamming into the wall, he guesses.
"Oh my, darling, are you okay?" The alerted voice of his mother somewhat quells the hungry mouth clawing at his chest, but the beast is fierce, does not relent.
He ducks his head around hunched shoulders as he focuses on his ragged breathing, shakes his head in declination.
"Richard. What is it?" He hears heels click against his floorboard - Night, then, probably late, too.
The burning acid of welling tears rushes up his throat as he grits his teeth. "Mom. I can't see."
The sharp intake of breath that follows as the mattress dips next to him is enough a response.
"Oh, Richard." It's pained, and broken.
Just like he is.
The next day, he asks his mother to help him into the study and turns the tv on, finds the news tv station by total luck. It's a vain cause, but it's all he's got.
"What are you looking for, Richard?" His mother sighs as he sits in his armchair, rubs his face into his hands.
Kate, his rioting and fast decaying soul seems to scream.
"I don't know," he croaks out, his voice and heart breaking as one.
"Detective Katherine Beckett is reported to be now heading to the Presbyterian hospital after receiving a single bullet to the chest-"
His body freezes then and there, hands clenching and creeping up to nest into his hair and grip, hard - hard enough for the flaring pain to make him feel it.
But the intense, exploding ache that radiates throughout his own sternum like a reminder of what he's just heard is just as effective.
It's her.
It's her, and she's dead.
He shouldn't have looked down.
Thoughts?
I'm not sure what this is, I've been struggling to align two words together lately, and strangely, that's the result of that. It's different than what I usually do, and it's mainly a way to keep writing, but I figured it still was worth publishing. I won't be revealing the prompt, except if really needed, but it shouldn't be. x