All These Tomorrows

"Everything is more beautiful

because we are doomed.

You will never be lovelier

than you are now.

We will never be here again"

Homer, The Iliad

Body sagging against the bright red door, heart seismically thundering in her ears, she stared through the window, out, out past the streamers of milky morning light and marveled. Because today was the start of something entirely new. Today their lives changed forever, by virtue of the plastic bag clutched tightly in her sweaty, trembling fist. It kind of amazed her—early this morning, still cocooned and tangled up in their expensive linens, nestled in the crater her body had formed in the memory foam mattress, pressed against the warm expanse of Castle's muscled back—how normally the morning had begun. And now? Now. She lifted her free hand to the wide stretch of her lips, an accidental grin, the joy spilling out at her seams. She was effervescent. She was shaking. She had to get a grip. Because now wasn't the right moment to change their lives. Tonight would be their moment. The axis of their tomorrows.

Because now? Now he had a Black Pawn meeting that would inevitably stretch for hours and hours, Paula abrasively making demands, Gina insisting on more, detestable media exposure. So now was—yeah, no. Now was no good. Instead, she would plan for tonight and tomorrow, and all the tomorrows that stretched out before them.

And then that moment—her little eye in the storm—pressed against the cool metal of the door, staring into the sun, it stretched, rubber band-like, and propelled her forward, back to herself. Formidable, controlled Beckett returned; dopey, smiley Beckett tucked away safely for later.

"Kate?" Maybe not so tucked away, after all.

The bag. It wasn't time for this conversation, but if he saw the bag, the conversation would be unavoidable. Whatcha got there, Beckett? I wanna see! She could already hear his wheedling, nosy inquisitions and she wasn't prepared for that discussion. Pushing off of the door, she half fell, half lunged for the couch and shoved it beneath a pillow before rushing into the kitchen. Coffee. She would make coffee, distract herself with a task. Coffee would save her.

"In the kitchen, babe!" Jesus, could her voice be any breathier? She sounded winded and elated. Not herself at all. He'd see through her in a minute, coffee or no. Get it together, Beckett. What had happened to her inscrutability? She'd once been the reigning ice queen of the 12th—nothing phased her, no informative flickers of emotion. A veritable vault. And now? Panes of glass were less transparent than she. Ridiculous. She flicked on the faucet, grabbed the water reservoir, tried to steady her hands and her voice.

"What are you gonna do today?" His voice issued from the master bedroom, muffled and murky.

Oh, Castle, if you knew…

"Wedding stuff, probably. I'm on call, so fingers crossed no body drops. I don't know, maybe some house cleaning," she tried for steadiness, wasn't sure she succeeded, "I need some coffee. You have time for a cup?" She knew he didn't, was striving to fill the silence, create the illusion of normalcy.

"If I'm late, Paula will probably flay me alive, or have her new antique-broker boy-toy find a rack to torture me on, so unfortunately I will have to forgo the coffee in the pursuit of self-preservation," he ended on a sigh, rounded the corner with his gaze trained on the uncooperative knot of his tie. Relief ruffled through her at the distraction, and she set the reservoir aside, gently knocked his hands away, "Here, let me, Rick." He finally looked up at her, met her eyes, and blinked hard, once, twice, mouth parting.

"Are you okay?" Yeah, there it was. That uncanny insight she had been dreading. Smile, Beckett. She smiled, softly. It started out a forced thing, but then she thought of that little bag under their sofa cushion, how euphoric Castle would be, how for just a few short hours she could savor this knowledge. That it was all her own. And suddenly, her forced little smile grew into a real thing, grew warm and tender and knowing, with all the enigmatic charm of Mona Lisa.

"Yeah," she sighed, and met the soft blue of his eyes, pressed her palm to the freshly shaved plane of his cheek. "I'm good, Castle," she reassured him, and then turned her attention back to his tie, murmuring the first thing that sprung to mind in an effort to divert his attention. Appeal to his baser instincts, engage his testosterone. Beckett.

"So...a rack, huh? Medieval? Leather restraints? Sounds—" she deliberately pitched her voice low, allowing a husky note to creep in, pushed closer to his ear for effect, "—kinky."

"Kinky," His eyes flashed, he chuckled roughly, his breath warm against her face. With a little growl, he jerked her against his chest, trapping her hands between them. Oh, the way he looked at her—mean, Beckett, provoking him with no intention of follow-through—left her dry-mouthed and a little dizzy. Her pulse jumped, hands tightened convulsively around the silk of his tie, "I thought that's what we did last night, Beckett." The k in her name was a hard snap in his mouth, a rush of heat between her thighs. Yeah, her plan was not playing out the way she'd anticipated. This might be backfiring.

"Castle," she scoffed breathily, teasingly, staring hotly into his hard, glittering eyes, reveling in his tense anticipation, knowing even as she let the words slide silky and warm from her lips, a full octave lower than her normal timbre—even as she slid her hand down the front of his trousers—that she was starting a fire she'd be forced to extinguish—

"You didn't do kinky, you did me from behi—"

His mouth covered hers, hand gripping her wrist, grinding himself against her hand. He was demanding, aggressive, sexy as hell. She kept expecting to develop some quasi-immunity to the acute lust that had consumed her—consumed them—from the very start of their relationship, but here it was, incendiary as ever. She loved it. Craved it. Always, always, it overwhelmed her.

The corner of the counter dug sharply into her hip, his hardening length pressed against her stomach, and the smell of fresh coffee grounds wrapped around them. It was like this every time—consuming and devastating and engulfing.

His tongue slicked against hers, teased the roof of her mouth, scooped moans from her throat; broad hands clutched the jutting curves of her ilia, pulling, possessive and greedy, hot, hot, so hot, and she gave a little desperate mewl, absolutely hating Black Pawn in that moment. Forgetting the bag. Forgetting that this started out as a distraction. All she felt was desire. Felt consumed. Alive. He pressed his mouth against that place on her neck that concurrently drove her into herself and out of her mind, and she bucked against him even as she pulled him closer, needing him closer. Her breath shuddered out, carrying her plea, "St-stop, Castle. Y-you've got—you've gotta go or you'll be late. Please, please just—you've gotta go, Rick." It would wait, she told herself. They would wait.

She felt him still against her, his mouth lingering, a wet brand on her neck. Another moment passed, and she could see him physically and mentally recalling his control before pulling back to survey her, eyes still dark with longing. "You're a miserable tease," he muttered roughly, fingers digging into her, almost bruising. She huffed a little laugh, nodding weakly in tacit agreement, and pressed a gentling kiss to his mouth. Yeah, she loved the push and pull. Loved keeping him on his toes, on edge, with her unpredictability.

And tonight would bowl him over.

"And unapologetically so. Tonight I have a surprise for you." She added, surprising herself because she hadn't really intended to say anything.

Surprises, she amended internally. Several. New lingerie? Check. She had a frothy charcoal set—outrageously expensive for such a minimal amount of lace and silk—stashed in the back of her closet in a nondescript, black bag. Tonight was a good night to debut it, she mused. And their favorite Thai takeout. Wine? Well, maybe for him. She almost smiled at that thought. Of course, there would be candles and her favorite Miles Davis mix. And the little plastic bag. Plans.

Oh, yeah. Hello. There it was. That intemperate curiosity. It flickered to life like a pilot light, ignited by her words. "Surprise? Why? What's the occasion?" She pulled the ruined tie from around his neck, draped it over her shoulder, straightened the collar of his shirt, holding his gaze as she did so. She was sure he could see the edges of her shiny happiness, sure it was welling up in her eyes, so she pirouetted away from him and toward the coffee.

"Tonight, Castle," she promised softly, "it's a good surprise. But it's my secret, and that's all I'm saying about it for now."

"You're the worst," he grumbled leadingly.

"And your manipulation game is weak," she shot back, flashed him a wry grin, "Now go. Go to your meeting, and I'll see you tonight."

Grumbling, he gathered up a sheath of papers from the coffee table—the newest draft of his manuscript, she presumed—his laptop, and his phone and jogged to the front door. "Do you need me to pick anything up on my way back home?" He asked on his way out, the question almost a ritual.

"Nope, I've got tonight all covered. Just bring yourself. And your curiosity," she added.

He regarded her bemusedly, gave her that crooked half smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and nodded once. "I'll be here. So will my curiosity—you've piqued it admirably," his voice was soft, even softer than his smiling eyes, and she wondered what was running through his head. Wanted to ask him. Did he suspect? Oh, she needed to tell him. She had the sudden, overwhelming urge to ask him to blow off his meeting. To just spill everything now, no filters or planning or polish. Here in the kitchen, without preamble, her a mess, him tidy and pressed, her words raw and genuine—just tell him.

But then his hand was moving, unlocking the door.

Too late.

"I'll see you tonight, babe," he murmured with one last smile, slipped outside, locked the door behind him with a metallic snick.

And then she was alone.

When she looked back on that last moment with him—that last moment together—she fought to salvage every detail. The way the morning light fell in broken shards through the blinds. How it glanced off of the gold in his hair, the cobwebby fineness of his eyelashes. The twist of his lips, the velvety planes of his freshly shaven face, the sleepy heat in his eyes. She spent hours playing it back in her head, a vengeful loop. Strained for every shadow, corner, and subtlety of those minimal seconds in an effort to recreate that happiness. To blot out the hopelessness, even temporarily.

When she looked back on that moment, remembering herself standing in their kitchen, bare toes cold on the tile, wearing a genuine smile, feeling very much in love and alive and full of hope, she could almost taste the regret. Ashes in her mouth. She should have told him she loved him, shouldn't have allowed her last words to be so flippant. She should have given him the bag, should have taken advantage of that moment, savored it with him. Celebrated. Reveled. Every second of that morning haunted her. Every should have. Every could have.

She shouldn't have let him leave.

What if he hadn't left.

What if he'd stayed.

What if.

What if.

Castle leaned against the pressed wood wall of the elevator and heaved a sigh as the doors sealed and the carriage jolted upward. Slowly. Too slowly. He felt uncharacteristically impatient and weary, wanted to sink down into his bed, wanted to feel the gentle weight of his fiancée enveloped in his arms, laid on his chest. Today had drained him. Ten hours confined in a stuffy conference room—his back and shoulders stiff from the unforgiving modern seating, his stomach uneasy from the limp salad he'd managed for lunch, and his best efforts unable to appease the two patently unhappy females who controlled his professional life.

Deliberating over financial minutiae was tedious at best, and when Gina was steering the deliberations? Suffice to say he'd had more enjoyable root canals. And then, of course, Paula chose today to demand her pound (or ten) of flesh, insisting establishing plans for another book tour (and a radio circuit, apparently) was imperative to the marketing success of his newest Heat installment—an assessment he agreed with, true—but found a bit premature given he still had roughly twenty chapters to churn out before submitting it for edits. Between the two of them, Gina and Paula had left him feeling rather the worse for wear. Maybe "stressed beyond reason" was the more accurate assessment for his current mental state. Although, they had approved of the three newest chapters he'd barely managed to complete for today's meeting. So today wasn't a total catastrophe. Stressful? Absolutely. Disastrous? Not so much. Although, the whole experience had left him more than a little pissy—he really had felt marginally railroaded in regards to the book tour.

And radio? Really, Paula?

But that was a rant he could indulge in tomorrow. If it even bothered him by then. Odds are, whatever was on the agenda tonight would sweep the last vestiges of his frustration away. Kate hardly ever planned surprises, so he especially savored moments like tonight, enjoyed her mysterious smiles and the almost girlish pleasure she took in his rampant excitement. He was hungry, (still) aroused, frustrated, weary, and intrigued—an odd composite of needs and emotions—but he'd be damned if he'd let any of that color tonight. Whatever tonight was. He'd texted back and forth with her during a lull in his meeting, and then once before leaving Black Pawn and hadn't heard back from her yet, though he assumed she was likely busy with dinner or preparations for this evening.

The elevator shuddered to halt and he strode purposely to the front door of the loft.

Turned the key, palmed the handle, pushed into the entryway, called her name instinctively.

Kate, I'm home.

The first thing to hit him was a wave of alien scents—bleach and pennies and damp cloth.

Second, the sights—fading evening light illuminated dark smears and spatters that freckled, adorned his floors, his walls, his ceilings.

Third, the sounds—a silence so pervasive it roared in his ears, made him aware of the frantic pounding of his heart, the way his breaths escaped in shallow pants.

And his final discovery—their Wusthof butcher knife discarded carelessly on the floor, blood on the blade, blood on the handle.

Blood. All the smears and the spatters. All the puddles and pools. He could smell it, he could taste it. Saliva, bitter and salient, flooded his mouth. Pre-emetic response, his writer's brain contributed. His throat was tight, a knot of muscle or emotion lodged in his windpipe.

But I'm breathing like a marathon runner, so there couldn't possibly be an obstruction.

Something was clenching and releasing in his chest, in his gut, striking up a furious tempo, and he could see his hands shaking uncontrollably in his peripheral vision.

He absorbed it all in the space of a moment, this horrifically still moment, an eye in the middle of a storm, and then it stretched, stretched, stretched—panic crested, welled up in him, tautened his limbs, tightened his lungs, pressed against the back of his eyes, bubbled upward, outward—and then.

It snapped.

She's dead. She's dead. She's dead, crept through his mind insidiously, a dark cadence that kept the same meter as his hammering pulse. His hand found his phone blindly, clutched it like a lifeline, as he called out her name again, "Kate!"

He followed a slick smear of blood, stumbling next to the cherry drag marks, tracked it from the den to his office to their bedroom to the master bath where it ended. A drawn out moan, animal pain and suffering, echoed off the bathroom tile, and he felt the edges of his vision go fuzzy at the thought that she was suffering, dying. It took him a moment, took him until he had flung open the closet doors and turned in frantic circles scanning the small space, to realize those sounds were issuing from his mouth, were being squeezed from his chest.

Kate, wherever she was, wasn't here.

Shaking, sweating, bile searing the back of his throat, he made the call. Waited what seemed to be an interminable amount of time as the whir of the dial tone punctuated the silence.

"Yo, Castle. What's up?" Esposito's voice was cheerful, sounded like he was at a bar, Ryan's voice a tinny murmur in the background.

And the sheer normalcy of the greeting just broke him. Because nothing would ever be normal again, he could feel the truth of it in his bones, somewhere deep and immeasurable and ancient. His knees gave out and he sank to the floor, head knocking against the lip of the counter on his way down, back thudding against the cabinets.

"It's Kate, Espo," it ripped from his mouth sob-like, but it wasn't a sob, was too dead to be a sob, too hollow, too awful, "blood everywhere in the loft and I know she's dead."

Silence on the other end of the line save for the muffled strains of some bass-heavy club jam.

"Hold on, Castle."

Yeah, that was all he needed. That assurance. The phone slipped from his hand, clattered to the floor, and he stared wide-eyed at the streaks of rusty blood on the tile and finally—goddamn finally—allowed himself to succumb to the fear that rattled his bones.

TBC

A/N: If you made it this far, then I thank you sincerely from the bottom of my heart. It's been a long time—too long—since I've tried my hand at fanfiction of any kind, and diving back into the minds of different characters has been an undertaking both exciting and daunting. Especially since I intend for this particular fic to be an extensive one—no set chapter count as of yet, but lengthy. I would dearly love to hear from anyone who reads through this and has constructive criticism to offer! There are many passages and portions of this with which I'm dissatisfied, and I'm well aware there's plenty of room for improvement!