.
What was…
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One shot.
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It's hard when everything you thought you knew turns out to be a lie.
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8.
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The door of his P.I. office closes with a soft snap, his mother and daughter heading home - finally - and he lowers himself to the edge of his desk. His.
There were events that led up to this night, of course there were, but the late hour, the blackened sky, absent moon, steals what was, reasons and events, and he's left searching the room for clues.
He's a private investigator, after all.
His jaw stretches on a yawn, his arms lifting toward the ceiling of their own accord. A heaviness has been settling on his shoulders of late, the sense of what was and is fluttering through his fingers. Memories he knows are certain shimmer at the edges, until, when he focuses, attempts to place them in order, he's left with grains of sand and a heavy heart.
There's something missing, absent from the story that is his life, and if he could just place the pieces of this mystery down before him, he has no doubt he could solve it.
After all, that's what they do.
They?
He stands with a jerk, two quick strides have him reaching the window, his palm slapping solidly against the grain. A giggle slips past his ear. Soft, modest, almost as if hidden from him, and he slumps sideways into the wall.
Deft fingers yank at his belt, and, with a resigned sigh, he closes his eyes. Smooth skin ghosts across his cheek. Open lips, hot, wanting, skim the line of his jaw. Teeth, blunt and searching rake over the stubble under his throat.
Enough, Kate.
Kate?
Wrenching his eyes wide, he attempts to breathe, the hint of something familiar clogging his throat, and he scans the room.
There's nobody there.
Never is.
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7.
.
The pen is solid iron in his hand, unable to be moved, unable to draw over the piece of paper that has to be signed. It's just… How did it come to this?
With a groan that's picked up by the wind, hurtled along and over the vast stretch of grass and into the ocean, he drops his shoulders in defeat.
And scrawls his name across the bottom of the crisp, white document.
His Hamptons home is sold.
The realtor exits with a smile, wide and exhilarated, and Rick steps off the veranda, his legs buckling under the weight of what he has just done. This is - was - his sanctuary and - okay an ex-wife or two may have tainted some of its appeal - it had been destined for extraordinary things.
Strands of grass bend with the rising gusts, the breeze growing steadily with the afternoon, and he reaches for one of the chairs dotting the open space, waiting for friends, for family that should be on their way.
She's not coming.
This mansion - not quite as lavish as James Patterson's, but still something he's been proud of - has been empty for far too long. His neglect apparent in the jagged lines of the driveway, in the green tinge lining the pool's surface, in the silent echo of their kitchen.
His.
He drops his chin, the strain on the muscles twisting and creeping along his neck to the base of his head. With a tired hand he rubs the ache.
It doesn't ease.
One last gaze across the ocean, one last climb up the stairs, and he's sheltered under the sagging roof of the gazebo. What could have been the perfect spot to curl with a good book and a comfy pillow, some soft music and the sun setting behind them, is no more.
Him.
It could have been a place he spent always with her. But as goose bumps spring forth across the exposed skin of his forearms, he rests his head against a pillar, his body held upright by the solid banister that forms several sides, and he tries to breathe.
Tomorrow's adventures no longer seem to await. Every day the joy in his heart appears to dim.
And he can no longer shake the sensation that something is going terribly wrong.
Who is she?
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6.
.
The sidewalk spills with people, the bump of bodies, the clash of chatter and shouts. Lunch from an open diner seeps in between them all, and he falters at the steps of Remy's, his stomach protesting. He could go for some fries and a milkshake.
Jumping sideways, he avoids a collision, the businessman jerking a finger in his direction before melting into the crowd, and Rick shrugs. Ass.
"Hey-"
The slam of his shoulder into another pushes him back a step, and he reels at the unexpected pain flaring, how his forehead explodes, fireworks dancing across his vision. That's new.
"It's you!"
Holding his head together with his right palm, Rick steadies his spine against the neighboring wall, attempts to peer at the man responsible for causing so much torture at such an insignificant knock.
"Huh?"
"You- You're running out of time. This isn't how it's meant to be." A bearded face looms too close, the harsh whisper panicked and erratic.
"What?"
"You were supposed to marry her. You were supposed to be with Senator Beckett and your three children."
His knees buckle, he knows that name, but the face… why are the pieces overlapping each other? There's a smile. A warmth in eyes that evolves with her mood. But…
"I don't know. Something's-"
"Someone."
Rick arches back, his shoulders hitting the brick hard, stars shooting in all direction as his head shatters once more.
As does his heart.
"Do you know what's wrong? What they did?"
The stranger shakes his head, sadness spilling onto the pavement between them.
"No. I just know this is not how it's supposed to be."
The black inside expands, curling across his chest. This isn't right.
This isn't how the story goes.
And with that he's alone, crumpling to the ground as the memory of lips - he'd swear were captured between teeth - blurs until there's nothing but haze.
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5.
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His knee bumps into the corner of the bed, the mattress oddly hard, unforgiving. He tears his gaze from the corner of the room, from the duffle bag that he'd swear was open there, half unpacked, and he bends with a huffed breath at the pull on his leg. Muscles and scar tissue tugging where he's caught himself. Scar tissue…
Lowering to the edge, his shoulders hunch. How?
There's something there. A whisper of a word, and he whips his head to the right, a silhouette of a body, tall and lean carving through the lamp left on from his bathroom. Steam curling as fingertips slide over skin, a low tune not quite heard.
There's nothing there.
And he blinks, his hands twisting within the flannel of his pajama pants.
"Hello?"
Silence greets him in response, his bedroom as quiet as it always is. Yet… he drops his stare to the books snuggled within their open case, their colored spines comforting, a sense of right straightening his spine.
Books. His books line themselves there, but as he sinks into the comforter, thick and enveloping, he locks eyes with himself in the photograph propped up on the chest of drawers, arms looped lovingly around his almost adult daughter.
Something's wrong with the picture?
A delicate scattering of dust catches the light, and he narrows his eyes on the layer covering the surface, something's removed, something's gone…
Beckett?
He shakes his head, hair flopping as he shifts back to the security of his stories, away from names with no meaning. The books again right his world.
Except what has he been writing about?
Who has he been writing about?
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4.
.
The bomb blast rocks the walls, debris raining from above as the bank shutters, and he hunches closer to his mother, shields her from the abuse pelting them. Dust rises. Clouds thick and choking, swirl and he coughs into the zip ties, which hold his hands together, effectively reducing him to useless.
Shouts thunder over the groan of the building, barely audible but there and he searches through the bars.
"Beck-" The word dies on his lips, withered and unknown. What was he calling out? Who was he calling for?
"Be careful." It works this time. His lips and tongue pushing the syllables and it spurs the others, freedom near.
An officer cuts him loose, before moving onto his mother, and Rick scans their rescuers. He seeks each face in turn, examines features looking for…
What?
Who?
The deadened edges of his soul, his mind, are expanding. They inch closer to the center, to what makes him, him.
If only he could remember what that is.
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3.
.
He opens the paper, the bold and brash headlines doing their job, capturing his attention. Serial Killer. There isn't much use for any other explanation, that sums it up well, and his hand reaches for his cell, fingers quick in pulling Alexis' number up before common sense kicks in.
She's in LA. Time with her mother.
Not that she's blonde or appears to be the victim type of this particular lunatic, yet his thumb continues scrolling past her name, toward…
The muscles in his hand go rigid, the list aglow on his screen, but he's nothing more than a statue, unable to budge.
He was combing for a name, and it was almost right there.
There's something he does, a dance he moves to, a part he plays. But he's forgotten the steps, the places he should put his feet, the lines he utters and when he speaks.
Maybe he could help? After all there are two kinds of people who sit around all day thinking about killing people…
Speaking of which, he really should start an outline for his next book, otherwise his ex-wife will murder him.
He can't imagine death is conductive to writing.
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2.
.
A stroll through the park is supposed to be relaxing, the way the swings rock in the breeze, the kids hollering in excitement as they dart from one monkey bar to the next. And if all else fails, the single moms lounging on benches are usually happy to aid in his pursuit of freeing his spirit, working out the kinks in his mind.
The writer's block which is crippling his style.
Sunlight bounces off tinted windows as a line of black SVUs hurtles along the service road, and Rick eyes the carousel they are heading towards, yellow tape flapping in the breeze.
NYPD's finest crawl like ants in the distance, and he changes his direction, curiosity for the story, an itch in his fingers, finally taking hold.
"Oh my god! Are you Rick Castle? The Rick Castle?" High and chirpy, his 'biggest fan' springs onto the well-worn path between the bushes and equipment, blocking his view of the crime scene.
Well, to be fair on her, it was more the perky double Ds that were doing it.
"Why yes, yes I am."
Giggles squeak from red puckered lips, her cleavage heaving as she latches onto his arm, the hint of expensive perfume, laced with something… familiar, and he stumbles mid step.
"I can't believe I bumped into you like this. I'm your biggest fan." He was right. "But when are you releasing your next book?" She drags the k out into a whine that - thankfully - Alexis never mastered.
With a shake of his head, he curls an arm around her thin waist.
"I'm actually looking for some inspiration, if you'd care to join me."
The activity from the cluster of cops and - by the look of it - Feds, pulls sharp on his gut, but then he's being tugged away.
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1.
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The pain in his head of late, and the constant spasm in his soul, flare as he slumps against the bar, the overhead lights and the latest argument with Gina piling another layer of torment onto his already miserable life.
It's not that he has anything to complain about. Money. Fans. Family. And is his darling daughter really doing homework at a book launch party? It's just that there has to be more to this existence, there should be a crux to life that isn't so… shallow.
"Mr. Castle."
He spins at his name, pen poised, but the space is empty, the crowd mingling around him oblivious to what's happened.
What hasn't.
He guesses this is it, the moment he's finally gone mad.
But it's worse than that, because for a second, just the smallest fraction in time, hope rose high and bright within. His life was going to change. He almost had extraordinary.
He almost had always.
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Nothing goes as planned. Everything will change.
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This was a result of me running while grumpy and sad, overworked and still devastated.
My apologies if something like this already exists, I'm still in early January with my reading of fic.
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Thank you to Jo and Jamie for the beta and the cheering. To B for the hugs.
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Please keep any hate, there's no room for it in my current state.
As always, thank you for reading.
xoxo