A/N: For the prompt: "The end of 'Always' was just a dream."
Richard Castle sits up in bed, looks around. What am I looking for? he thinks. Mother's in the Hamptons; I have no idea where Alexis is, but she's been more reliable than me for years now.
He sighs as he realizes what, or more presicely whom, he'd hoped to see in his bed upon awakening. But it was only a dream.
In his dream, Kate Beckett came to his door, into his arms, into his bed. She came to him on the heels of her personal disaster, drenched in rain and tears and regret. He doesn't recall what constituted the personal disaster - failure of some kind, failure to solve her mother's case, failure to keep Gates from finding out what she's been up to. Failure is what she fears the most.
Castle's greatest fear is loneliness - the fear that, when all is stripped away, his money, his fame, his talent, no one cares what happens to him, no one loves him. The days after he discovered Kate had heard him in the cemetary had been hell for that very reason. The possibility that she did not love him hit him so hard that he could hardly bear to be in her presence.
He had bitten down on that pain, plowed through it in order to survive, and eventually he'd seen a glimmer of hope that, even if she didn't love him yet, she might be on her way to doing so.
Then, two days ago, he had been frightened enough at the probability of losing her entirely that he bared his soul, confessed to her the secret he'd been keeping, laid on the table the cards he thought would settle the case. And Kate Beckett had not given him so much as a hint of a response to his suit. Her reaction had been one of condemnation of his motives - she'd gone on the attack, deflecting any mention of why he'd done what he'd done with her own feelings of betrayal and anger.
She wanted the lead, that was all. So he had left her with what she wanted. It was done. He was drained.
Alexis' speech was brilliant. Castle was humbled that in spite of his inconsistent parenting skills, his daughter had become such a shining light. He went home, reassured his shining daughter that he was all right on his own, and cued up the John Woo double feature.
His cell rang. Kate Beckett? Dismissed.
He managed to stay away from the scotch, sticking with a glass of wine and some gourmet popcorn, but halfway through The Killer he realized that he was not, after all, enjoying himself. He kept hearing Beckett's voice saying, "The bloodier, the better," and imagining what their conversation might have been like had she been there.
This would never do. He turned off the movie, wandered the loft, ended up in his office with a pad and pen, sketching out various endings for Nikki Heat. Should he kill her off as he head Derrick Storm? Should she ride off into the sunset, with or without Jameson Rook? It would be too tempting to write his sorrow and bitterness into the conclusion. The scotch came into play then, and he found himself writing out ways that the last few days with Kate might have been scripted.
She'd have come to his door, needing his help with wrapping up the lead she'd been unable to follow. He'd have declined with dignity and shut the door.
She'd have knocked on his door, called out for him, and he'd have refused to answer, retreated into his office with headphones and John Woo.
She'd have called him to say goodbye as she bled out in an alley, killed by her own obsession.
Then he wrote the scene he really longed for - his fantasy. She'd have come to his door, simply to apologize, to confess her need and her fault in discarding his love. He'd have steeled himself against her emotions, reminding himself not to give her any further ammunition for breaking his mind, his hopes, his heart.
She would kiss him - or try to - and that would burst the dam he'd he'd been trying to shore up around his heart; he'd respond instantly and without reservation. At last, he could show her with actions what he'd been saying in words for so long.
He would take the last chance that she might be offering him the honesty and trust and love that he'd been waiting for. He'd take her to bed and drown in the luxury of making love with her at last, regardless of consequence.
But now - he wakes to the realization that his dreams had been only a reflection of his imagination, that he is indeed alone, and that as Alexis had said, everything would change.
He gets himself out of bed, showers, makes coffee, and starts combing the loft for anything that might remind him of Beckett, collecting items on the kitchen counter. He deletes all his photos of her from his phone (but not before he downloads them all to his storage drive) and deletes the outline he'd created for her mother's case on his smart board. He gets a call from Alexis, who says she's staying at Paige's until her head stabilizes, and hangs up satisfied that she's safe and among friends. All he has to do now is decide what to do with his day, all on his own.
There is a knock on the door.
### fin ###