Kate Beckett sighs as she steps into her apartment, relishing in the darkness that envelopes her. She slips off her heels, deposits her bag next to them on the floor, and heads straight for the sofa.
She collapses on the cushions in a daze, staring blankly at the ceiling. After what feels like hours, she drags herself into a sitting position and releases her hair from its tight bun. As the curls tumble over her shoulders, some brushing her face, she sweeps them immediately up again. Her hair down and loose is just too chaotic; she needs control over at least one aspect of her life.
Her stomach rumbles; she doesn't remember the last time she's eaten a decent meal. She tries to push herself off the couch, but settles instead for keeling over and curling into a fetal position, as the effort sends flames of pain shooting through her chest and abdomen. She is too weak to move, too weak to even protest as tears threaten to break past their barricades. Pathetic. She has never been more grateful for her dark, empty apartment.
The darkness is comfortable, it's safe, a false sense of security. In the darkness, she can lay there, not moving, until she feels human again, well, almost. In the darkness, there are no flashes to mirror the reflection of a sniper rifle. In the darkness, it doesn't feel as real; more like a terrible nightmare and less like a memory. In the darkness, she can pretend she's fine, because she doesn't have to pretend she's fine.
No one can see her in the darkness; they can't see the fear hidden deep in her eyes or the tears she constantly fights so desperately against. They can't see when she breaks; the darkness hides the fault lines of her shattered heart. She is growing quite fond of the darkness; yet, as she thinks back to the night before, she can't help but think what else it symbolizes. Huddled on the floor with only her gun and a bottle of whiskey for comfort, hiding. Hiding from what, her mind?
Yes, the darkness also means loneliness. Coming home to a dark, empty apartment means coming home to nothing. Normally, she would have found serenity in the solitude and the silence, but on nights like tonight, she needs the reassurance of hope. She hasn't truly felt hope for twelve years.
Her mother had been her light, anchoring and brightening their little family with her loving and carefree personality. Her mother had been taken from her. Katherine Beckett has no light; she is alone in the dark. What's that saying, darkness is just the absence of light? She assumes the saying is meant to be reassuring, but she can only reminisce on how fitting it is. She is the darkness, too broken to be loved.
Castle thinks he loves her, but she can't fathom how he possibly could; he knows better than anyone just how damaged she is. He had only whispered those three words out of fear, because she was dying, she reminds herself harshly. His confession was uttered in the face of death, not in life- in the darkness as opposed to light.
She can't let herself hope, even for a second, that what he said was real because, even though she prefers the darkness, she doesn't trust it. She feels like she's on her ninth life, she must guard herself even more carefully; her heart can't survive being broken again, not when it had never truly healed the first time around.
She is running herself ragged; she hasn't eaten a decent meal in days, and she hasn't slept in even longer. She knows she needs to snap out of it, but she can't seem to make herself care. She knows she needs to find a way to get herself out of this dark place, but she refuses to call Dr. Burke. The weekly meetings with her therapist help more than she would like to admit, but she is not going to take time away from his family because she can't get a handle on herself. She refuses to show that weakness; instead, she remains curled in a ball on her sofa, desperately trying and failing to control her emotions.
A knock on the door slowly rouses her from her trance. Too disoriented to think better of it, she slowly makes her way to the door, opening it first without checking the peephole.
The area in front of her is empty; she looks around in confusion until her eyes are finally drawn to her feet. Sitting on top of a sleek black box are three cartons of Chinese takeout and a note, in his blocky handwriting, kindly telling her to please, please eat something.
As she bends down to retrieve the delivery, she checks her father's watch and briefly wonders how he had managed to get takeout at nearly midnight. Though she doesn't have much time to contemplate the thought, as the scent of the food finally reaches her and sends her into a frenzy; she hadn't realized how absolutely starving she is.
She barely manages to lock the door and flick the lights on before collapsing to the floor in the entryway, practically shoveling the food into her mouth.
It isn't until she's polished off her meal, in record time, that she remembers the black box. She brings the box to her lap, unwraps it, and gently pulls out a bound manuscript. Unspoken. The line printed directly below the title reads: An Alternate Ending to Heat Rises.
She cradles it in her arms as she stands and makes her way to her bedroom, washing her face and changing into her pajamas in a state of near shock. She climbs into bed, reverently picking up the book and opening it. Tears well in her eyes as she reads the dedication: To the extraordinary KB. To fill the silence.
She finally allows herself to break down and cry, releasing everything she has been trying to hold in since her Captain and friend had sacrificed himself for her. She feels her tears begin to diminish the iron-clad grip of the darkness, allowing the closest thing to peace she can remember to settle over her.
She doesn't get a chance to read any further, though, as she falls into a deep and healing slumber with the book clutched tightly to her chest.
For the third time in her life, Richard Castle has saved her with nothing more than his beautiful words.