It's late. All mistakes are mine. If you point them out to me, I swear I'll fix 'em in the morning. Struggled with this a bit, so hopefully it lives up to your expectations (particularly for those who kept asking me to write this).

I know I can't face what I have done, so I keep walking til I'm numb.

She stumbles inside her old building, tripping over the black bag clenched in her hands. Her old doorman gives her a once-over and she feels his curious stare bore holes into her head. She finds the apartment, only a few doors down from her old one.

Home sweet home. Right.

She tosses her keys onto the counter, clenching her teeth as she hears them slide across the marble countertop and clatter to the floor. The bag falls from her hand, forgotten as she collapses onto an old musty couch, frowning as it groans under her weight. Ugh.

She throws an arm over her bleary, tired eyes, shielding them from the harsh fluorescent lights. She scrapes her palm over her face, her wedding band hot against her cheek. Branding. Scalding.

God, what a fucking mess she's made. All of it, everything she's done for them, for him, gone, wasted because she doesn't know how to take care of what she has while she's fighting tooth and nail for both of them.

Words have always been his thing and they've never come easily to her. They wait, on her tongue, on her lips, stubborn as they try to catch up to her thoughts. She thought she explained herself all those months ago, what she was doing for their marriage, but she's starting to see—

She's made so many fucking mistakes.

Too little too late, Kate Beckett.

She curls onto her side, shoving her hands between her thighs, shivering despite the heat she hears blasting through one of the floor vents.

She can't get it out of her head; it plays on a fucking loop inside her head all day, at night when she's desperate for just a couple of hours of sleep.

He's broken, raw, crumbling in front of her. She crushes her knees to her chest, forcing the air from her lungs like his words had yesterday.

I want a divorce.

And then she's cracking again, sobbing against the worn arm that she lays her head on, her whole body convulsing with grief, of what she's done.

Of what she's lost.

She wakes drenched in sweat, mouth as dry as the Mojave. She brushes the back of her hand against her mouth, wincing against the light. She pulls the sweatshirt from her clammy body, flinging it to the floor. Her muscles clench as she forces herself off the couch, protesting her choice location for a fitful rest.

She goes to pour herself a glass of water when she realizes that she really hasn't brought a damn thing.

Except for clothes and a toothbrush.

Hell of a lot good that does her now.

She swipes at her bottom lip with a groan and pulls her phone from her pocket. She fumbles with the buttons, shoves the phone between her ear and shoulder as she lets her body slump against the wall, the dial tone filling her ear, drowning out the noise his absence has left her with.

So much noise.

"Lanie," she croaks. She inhales on a gasp, her fingers curling against the wall, scraping the cheap paint. She closes her eyes, wills the words to spill from her mouth.

"Lanie, help."

She's there in under an hour, a few boxes of basic necessities under her arm. Kate takes them from her gratefully, a weak smile on her lips. She pulls a glass from one of the boxes and sticks it under the faucet.

"Chinese food's on the way," Lanie says softly.

Kate chugs the water, emitting a small, protesting noise as the water slides down her scratchy throat.

"Not hungry," she manages, placing the glass onto the counter.

"You will be," Lanie counters. She pauses, cocking her head thoughtfully. "You wanna talk about it?"

Her response is swift. Hard. "No."

"Kate—"

She closes her eyes. "Lanie," she warns.

Lanie shakes her head firmly. "No. I'm pushing this one, Kate Beckett. You can't let this eat away at you."

Kate clenches her fist against her sides. "What's there to say? He wants a divorce. End of story."

Lanie raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. "End of story? That's what you're going with?"

Kate nods slowly, tears slowly filling her eyes. "Yeah," she breathes. "That's what I'm goin' with. Because—" she breaks off, swallowing hard. "If I tell you that it's my fault, that it's—" She presses the heel of her hand to her head, "that it's all my fucking fault, that I've ruined the best thing in my life…" she trails off, lets the tears fall down her face. "How the hell am I supposed to live with myself the rest of my life?"

"Honey," Lanie says softly, her arms dropping to her sides. "What happened?"

"Lanie," she gasps, shaking her head. "Please, I—" She chokes on a sob. She tears a hand through her hair, can't tame down the panic. It swallows her, wraps her in a suffocating cloak of darkness, pushing down on her chest.

"It's all my fault," she whispers, swiping a hand across her wet cheeks.

And then she lets Lanie wrap her arms around her in a warm embrace.

"You're gonna get through this," her friend promises, squeezing her gently. But that's the thing.

She's not.

She wakes up on the floor under a blanket, surrounded by empty cartons of Chinese food (Lanie was right, as it turns out. She shoved it down her throat after spilling the whole story) and a half-empty bottle of wine.

"Morning, sunshine," Lanie greets her, thrusting a cup of coffee under her nose.

Kate gives her a grateful smile and takes the mug from her. "Thanks." She shifts up into a sitting position, resting her back against the side of the couch.

"I've been called into a scene. You gonna be okay here by yourself or should I call Papa Beckett?"

Shit. Work.

Kate sets her coffee down and fumbles around, searching for her phone.

"You didn't get a call," Lanie says, reading her mind. "They called Javi in."

Kate sighs, lets her body slowly fall to its previous position. "I should call Gates. Maybe she'll give me the day off."

"With as many days you've racked up, she should be giving you a month off."

"Lanie—"

She hums in disapproval. "At least take the week off, Kate." She pauses. "Give yourself some time."

Kate shakes her head. "I'll drive myself crazy if I stay here," she says quietly.

"Then don't stay here. Visit your Dad. Go shopping. Hell, take a vacation. But I know you. And you'll run yourself even further into the ground if you go in."

Kate nods, doesn't have the strength to argue. "Okay, Lane." She lets out a breath. "Okay."

"I'll come back tonight. We can have a movie night and pig out on ice cream."

"That's sweet, but you don't have to do that. Spend some time with Javi."

Lanie rolls her eyes. "That boy can do without me for one night. Won't kill him."

Kate smiles a little, nodding. "Okay, then."

She watches as Lanie shrugs into her coat, tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulder. "And you better not still be on that floor when I get back."

She gets a glare thrown at her for that.

She manages to keep her head above the water for a few days, but only barely. She eats when Lanie tells her to, and it makes her feel like such a child, but she knows she'd live on coffee and the occasional bagel without Lanie's reminders.

Gates gave her the time off with little inquiry, which Kate's thankful for. She doesn't really have the strength to admit to another person that her marriage is in shambles.

In fact, she'd really like to live in denial just a little while longer, but life keeps getting in the way.

Lanie presses her to call her Dad, so she does. She tries to veil the sadness, the desperation in her voice, but she knows it's thin. He's always been able to see through her, anyway.

She agrees to meet him for breakfast at his house, nothing public. So she shrugs into Castle's sweatshirt (she stole it from him ages ago and kept it in a locker at the precinct) and her favorite pair of worn, faded jeans.

"You need to talk to him, Katie," her Dad suggests, soft and firm.

"All we do is fight. It only makes things worse," she admits, swallowing a bite of her pancake.

He sighs. "Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"

"Because," she starts, letting out a breath. "I didn't know."

He raises an eyebrow as he takes a long sip of his coffee, doesn't really believe her.

She bites at her bottom lip, thoughtful. "It was bad, Dad. I stopped coming home at night and he refused to work her case with me—"

"Can you blame him?" he interrupts.

Her eyes flick to his sharply. "He doesn't understand—" She breaks off, shaking her head.

"Doesn't understand what, Kate?"

She purses her lips. "That I'm not doing it for Mom anymore, Dad. It's not about her anymore. It's about us." She scrapes a hand through her ponytail anxiously. "I'm so sick of it following me. I just want it to be over," she confesses, voice cracking.

"I understand that. But, Kate—" He breaks off, covering her hand with his. "You can't put your marriage on hold while you fight your demons."

She swallows hard. "I saw what it did to him; I did. And I—God, I was so stupid, but I thought if he could just wait—"

"Don't you think he's done enough waiting?" he asks.

"I didn't think it would take this long. I thought we'd have answers by now," she says.

"What if you never find them, Kate? What if you never find the answers?"

"I—"

"It makes no sense to put your life on hold for answers you may not ever get," he points out. "And Rick's a big boy, Kate. He knew what he was getting into when he married you. He doesn't expect a perfect life, free of complications. He just wants you."

He just wants you.

"What if I can't fix it? Maybe it's too late," she says quietly.

"Maybe it is," he says carefully. "But, Kate?" Her eyes find his, gentle and loving. "You'll never know if you don't keep trying."

She waits. For what, she isn't sure. Only that she isn't ready to talk to him without a battle plan. She always goes in unarmed, her words and her explanations paltry at best.

They're not enough. She needs an arsenal.

But after a week of hiding from the world, she's had enough.

That, and she's run out of clean clothing.

She's a little disappointed, a little relieved that he doesn't answer. She can prepare herself better, maybe even pick up the phone instead of confronting him face to face. Start off small.

But, as luck would have it, he's home after all.

"Oh," she lets out on a surprised breath, the sight of him standing there almost too much to bear. His eyes are dark, dull as she hunts in vain to find the light.. She stops in her path and her hands find each other in an anxious dance. "There was no answer, so—" She sighs and she lets her chin drop to her chest for a moment, exhausted.

Find your words, Kate.

She lifts her head slowly, meets his gaze once again. "I left some of my things here," she finishes quietly.

He nods slowly, silent, as if waiting for something. She should move, walk, bolt, something, but she's rooted to her spot, waiting for him for once.

"You hungry?" he blurts out.

She shakes her head. "I had some cereal for breakfast."

His eyes flick to the clock on the microwave (3:00 p.m.) and back to her, his eyebrows raised.

She rolls her eyes. "Don't start with me."

He clenches his jaw. "You need to eat, Kate."

"You don't get to worry about me anymore, Rick," she snaps, the words out before she can stop them. She's still a little frustrated and angry, apparently.

Glad to see some things haven't changed.

But then he's shrinking away from her, silent as he busies himself at the stove. Her heart clenches and she wonders if she'll ever stop hurting him, if you ever stop hurting the ones you love.

"I'm—sorry," she rasps. "I didn't mean—"

He shakes his head. "It's fine," he whispers hoarsely, more for his own benefit. But it isn't fine.

It's not.

"No, it's not," she says, soft, insistent. "It's not fine."

And suddenly they're talking about so much more. Subtext has always been their specialty, hasn't it?

The spatula falls from his hand, clatters onto the stovetop. "Kate—"

And then she's finally making a move as her feet find their way to him.

"Pick up the spatula, Castle," she prods. He turns around and she forces a smile for his benefit (or hers, she doesn't know), curving her body against the island.

And maybe her eyes are playing tricks on her and she's only seeing what she wants, but she swears—

A flicker of light.

"I don't eat burned pancakes," she offers.

God, Castle. Take it, please.

I love you.

And she watches, her breath catching in her throat as he tosses the pancake into the trash and starts anew.

Maybe she's foolish for coming over here, for thinking she still has a shot for him, but in this moment, she can't bring herself to care.

Because they haven't had a meal together in six months.

This companion was inspired by the song "Walking" by Alexz Johnson. It's a really wonderful, raw, and powerful song. You should give it a listen.

Love to hear your thoughts.

Liv