my selves go with you,only i remain;
a shadow phantom effigy or seeming
(an almost someone always who's noone)
-your homecoming will be my homecoming, e.e. cummings
This is not Manhattan.
The thought runs through her head over and over again, drowning almost everything else out.
This is not even a city.
She practically scoffs it, even in her own mind, and she winces a little at her pretentiousness.
But, seriously, how could anyone use the same word to describe Manhattan and this place?
This is not Manhattan.
She knows what she really means is
This is not my home.
For the first couple of weeks, she walks and walks, tries to figure the "city" out.
Tries to stop comparing every single thing to Manhattan.
She fails miserably.
The buildings are all too short, and there are blocks and blocks and blocks without restaurants or stores or even a freaking coffee shop.
She walked an entire mile without seeing a single one of those things.
What kind of city is this?
She tries her hardest to stop, because it does her no good.
This city – this place – is her home now.
She needs to get used to it.
She tries to get lost in the history, in the majesty of government and war heroes and monuments.
She succeeds only in getting lost in the job.
It makes her feel powerful, working for a federal agency.
Being called Agent Beckett.
It makes her feel like a superhero, except no no no, it doesn't.
That's Castle's influence over her. She won't have it.
The title makes her special, that's what she means. Literally. She's Special Agent Beckett.
(She overlooks the fact that there is no such thing as an agent that isn't called a Special Agent. She is special, really.)
Her job is not the job she had in that other city, and whereas she tries to fight comparing Manhattan itself to DC, she has almost no problem making this comparison.
Because it's good. This job is good. It's not lighthearted in the way it could be with her boys – she misses the camaraderie, no doubt. And there isn't nearly as much instant gratification; here, they track people, groups, over months and months, gathering evidence, following leads, all without tipping off a suspect.
But her coworkers – her fellow Special Agents – are good people, and the work is challenging in a way she appreciates.
She tells herself she'll build those relationships with them, too, and that she'll get that sense of rightness, of winning, as soon as they break one of these cases, as soon as she faces a suspect down.
It's good. Really. It is.
It takes about four weeks (29 days, her brain ruefully supplies) before a coworker makes a move.
Asks her out.
She works hard to control her reaction.
It makes her want to vomit.
She politely declines.
He nods. But he plows forward. Brave man.
Special Agent. Of course he is brave, her brain adds. Ruefully. Again.
"Is there someone else?"
She feels the color drain from her face and chuckles mirthlessly.
Is there?
There should be. There would be, if I weren't so goddamn stupid.
Instead, she goes with, "There might be."
And then she walks away.
He visits her two weeks after that.
She takes him around, points out all the ways this city is not Manhattan.
He laughs at her, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
The weekend is tense with him holding himself carefully back and her holding herself carefully together.
Their interactions are awkward. Even the sex is different.
Less love. More need.
He leaves Sunday night with a brisk "see you soon" and soft kiss on her cheek.
She waits until the door closes behind him before she lets the tears fall.
They stop talking on the phone.
Too much silence stretches between them, heavy and longer each time.
The stilted, polite questions they send back and forth make her throat feel thick.
Instead, she works later and later, sends quick I'm sorry texts long after she sees his missed calls.
She tells herself it's better for both of them.
She knows it's not.
Her father calls about once a week. Recently, he's had to leave messages.
Lanie called for a while, too, but now she mostly sends texts or the occasional email.
The boys call from the precinct from time to time to fill her in on whatever stupid situation they get into, Espo mercilessly teasing Ryan. Over-dramatically, of course, because it takes a lot to pull a real response out of her these days. They too call less and less.
She feels the loneliness creeping in, but she knows she has no one to blame but herself.
She tells herself she deserves it, wraps it around herself like some sort of twisted comfort blanket.
It feels a lot like five years ago.
The first time she's in real danger is seventy-six days after she started.
Instead of having him to look at, to protect, to motivate her, she has Special Agent Caruso.
She falters, and he cuts in. Saves them both.
That night, staring up at the ceiling with the blankets twisted awkwardly around her torso, she tells herself that she hesitated only because the suspect was so completely unpredictable, only because she wasn't certain he didn't have any hostages.
Deep down she knows it was because she stopped caring at some point over the last two and a half months.
Like her first years on the squad, she wanted to be in danger.
At a minimum, it could make her feel something other than completely and utterly numb.
At a maximum, it could make it all stop.
She pushes that thought away immediately.
No. Not now. Not anymore.
She's become really good at lying to herself.
He calls one night exactly ninety days after she left.
He's frantic.
At first, she can barely understand a word out of his mouth.
Finally, finally, he gets the words out.
"It's my mother."
She gets on the next flight.
She meets him in the hospital and is struck dumb by his appearance.
He's lost weight. A lot of weight.
He looks haggard. Older. Sad.
I did that to him.
Before she can continue that train of thought, he's barreling into her, hugging her tight against his chest, his breathing heavy and harsh.
It takes her a moment to understand what he's repeating over and over in her ear, his voice rough with it.
"Thank you."
She doesn't know what he's thanking her for, so she says nothing.
Just holds him tighter, squeezes her eyes shut, and sends up a prayer for them both.
His mother is released two days later with strict instructions to take it easy.
He still looks lost, so she helps bring Martha home, helps get her settled, helps organize her new medications, while Castle stays away from them both.
Too soon, she finds herself standing awkwardly about five feet from his office door where she knows he's been hiding.
She calls out to him, softly, but it's enough. In the next moment he's standing right in front of her.
"You heading back down tonight?"
She doesn't answer right away, doesn't meet his eyes.
She wants to scream at him, wants to cry.
You shouldn't have let me go. You should've fought harder.
You should fight now.
But she knows that's not fair. He put it all out there for her, he proposed to her.
In response, she went to another city. What more could she possibly expect of him?
When she's silent too long, he sighs heavily.
"Thank you for coming. You didn't have to. I hope you aren't in trouble with work."
That makes her want to vomit.
She feels her eyes start to sting, her stomach somersaulting.
She can't make the words come out.
I want to come home.
Instead, she steps into him and wraps herself around him, feels the shock ripple through his body before he responds, his arms coming up around her automatically.
"I miss you," she murmurs against his chest. She knows that's not fair to him, but the words are out before she can stop herself.
He doesn't lash out at her the way that he should.
"I miss you, too."
And then he lets her go.
When she gets back to DC, back to the small apartment she's forced herself to call home, she breaks down. Loses it.
She quits – resigns – the next day.
She packs up the few things that really matter to her and opts to take a train back to Manhattan, needing the time to go through it all in her mind, play out all possible scenarios.
Brace herself.
She drops the boxes off at her dad's and heads straight to the loft despite the absurdity of her showing up at 3:00 in the morning on a Tuesday.
Despite the absurdity of her showing up at all.
She hesitates at his door. Surely a knock won't wake him at this hour.
So she sends him a text.
Within seconds, the door opens.
He blinks repeatedly, then drags her inside, whispers what she so desperately needs to hear.
"I love you, too."
And, just like that, her world falls back into focus.
She breathes for the first time in ninety-four days.
-when all fears hopes beliefs doubts disappear
Everywhere and joy's perfect wholeness we're