So Like Fear
"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear." – C.S. Lewis
She has to do this.
She sits on her hands to hide the shaking. She's in the back of the courtroom; she doesn't trust herself to sit in the row reserved for police officers and the district attorneys. Not when he's sitting right there, handcuffs hidden by the French cuffs of his well-cut suit, hair expertly styled. He looks sorrowful, repentant for the press and court artist.
She knows better.
The assistant district attorney is finishing up their closing arguments, meeting each of the jurors' eyes. Beckett remembers her mom doing the same thing the few times she had let her daughter tag along to a short trial before going out to lunch. Make the twelve people in that box feel for the victims. Make it as though it was their father, daughter, cousin, best friend, co-worker who had been wronged. Make it personal.
Because it was. Every single murder, every robbery, every crime was personal.
Then it's the judge talking, explaining the case law to the jurors before charging them, sending them off to deliberate. The courtroom empties. Viewers head out the back door to the hallway. A court officer gathers up the man at the defense table, metal of the handcuffs clinking against one another as he walks into a separate room. The A.D.A. neatens up their files, photographs, notes into the banker's box, setting the lid on it before propping it on their hip for the walk back up to their office; you don't leave evidence in the courtroom, not with criminals or defense attorneys wandering around.
She stays. Her eyes closed as she lets out the breath she had been holding in. Sending a silent prayer to the seven men and five women in the deliberation room.
"Hey." He slides onto the bench next to her, thigh warm against hers.
She hums, slipping her hand from under her leg and onto his. He places his hand over hers, giving it a brief squeeze. "Thought you had meetings."
"Something more important came up." He tries a smile but it doesn't really transfer to her face. "I'm here. Whatever you need."
"Can we get coffee?" she asks softly, turning to look at him. "I need a distraction before I explode."
They go down the hall to the doors of the courthouse. Her heels click on the worn marble of the foyer – she needed the feeling of control this morning – and she checks her pocket for her badge before going out through security. There's a coffee cart down the street, right near the New York Supreme Court building. Not superior coffee but she's not going to complain.
September has turned the trees in the courtyard in Foley Square to burnished golds, leaves floating down around them as they sit on one of the benches. The cup of coffee is in her hands. She's staring at the trees. Her phone rests on her knee, screen black.
"Beckett."
She tips her head, letting it fall against his upper arm. "I… I don't know what to do."
"If it comes back 'not guilty'?" he asks.
"If it comes back at all," she confesses. "It's been fourteen years and I'm not sure I can say goodbye."
He sighs, lifting his hand to cup her cheek, thumb smoothing under her eye. "It'll be okay. You're okay."
"I'm scared. Scared of what I'll do when -"
The phone rings. Coffee sloshes over the lip of the cup and onto her hands.
"Shit," she growls, shaking her hand to get rid of the liquid that is still burning her skin. "Castle, can you?"
He swipes his finger across the screen without looking at the caller ID, holding the phone to her ear.
After two words, the coffee cup falls onto the ground, splattering the hems of her pants, waterfalling over the leather of her heels. Her heart trips into her throat.
"Castle."
He slides the phone into his own pocket. "Breathe," he says, tilting her face so she's looking into his eyes. "You can do this."
She finds his hand, lacing fingers together. "Don't let me -"
"You won't."
They walk the two blocks back to the courthouse. He's holding her back from running, his hand a gentle pressure at her wrist. Beckett flashes her badge at the security point, waiting on the other side of the metal detector as Castle goes through.
She's fine, mostly, until they reach the courtroom. Doors open, low buzz coming from the rows of seats.
And then her head spins, making the floor tilt. She slumps against the wall, knees going weak until he moves close to her. His body supports hers as she gasps for air. "I can't do this," she keens, leaning into his shoulder as her fingers scramble against his sides. "I can't."
He's blocking her from the people in the hall with his body. "Yes, you can," he says into her ear. She starts to shake her head but one of his hands skim up her back, giving her hair a tug. "You will hate yourself if you do not hear the verdict yourself. You can do this, Kate. And if you can't? I will be right here for you. No matter what." His voice is soft and warm, wrapping around her like a blanket and calming the fear that had lanced through her blood.
She drags her fingertips under her eyes, feeling the thin layer of moisture from her tears there. He uses the corner of a handkerchief to wipe away the streaked mascara. With the cloth still in his hand, he lowers his lips to the slightly puffy skin under her left eye, moving slowly down along the angles of her cheekbone to her mouth. The pair of soft butterfly kisses he drops there nearly make her cry again as he smoothes the sides of her shirt.
"Stay with me?" she asks, forehead still cushioned on his chest, lips moving over the wrinkles in his shirt.
He nods, pressing a final kiss at her temple. "Of course."
The room has more people crowded in there than before – a verdict is going to draw more attention than closing arguments, especially in a case so widely broadcasted – but they find a spot to squeeze into in the back of the room. His hand stays on her knee, pinching the crease in her pants. It's enough to center her, keeping her level.
She has to do this.
The twelve men and women file back in, sitting in the creaking wooden chairs. She tries to read their faces, find something – anything – in their eyes, lips but there's nothing. Completely blank.
The judge is asking the foreperson if they've reached a verdict. The middle-aged man nods his head as he confirms that, yes, they've agreed on a charge. He hands a folded piece of paper to the court officer who shows it to the judge before returning it to the man.
Her hand finds his, holding on. Letting him twine their fingers together. Anchoring herself against the smallest urge to jump up if this all goes wrong. He seems to sense her anxiety as he shifts closer until their arms touch from wrist to shoulder.
People go silent as the man at the defense table stands with his lawyer, eyes cold as he looks at the foreperson. She can't watch, closing her eyes and turning into his arm, nose pushing its way into his shirt, blocking out the stale smell of the courtroom, the almost-lingering disappointment she can feel hovering close by with the scent of his cologne and clean laundry.
"…defendant guilty on all counts."
A single sob escapes her, muffled against his body. Relief floods her, weakening her muscles. Her stomach rolls. His arm bands around her shoulders, holding her against him. He's whispering something into her ear but she can't comprehend them.
All she can think of is that it's over. It's finally, blessedly over.
He nudges her after a moment. "Beckett?" The courtroom is empty save for the prosecutor who is chatting with the court officer. "Let's go home, okay?"
She rocks forward when she gets to her feet, grasping his forearm to get her balance. "You drive." When he quirks a brow, she simply stuffs the keys into his free hand. "I just need to…"
And she's glad she's not behind the wheel because she ends up with her head against the window, lulled to sleep by the engine under her feet. Exhaustion from carrying the weight of the case for fourteen years overwhelming her. She doesn't really wake up until he gives her shoulder a shake once they're parked in the garage down the street from his building.
"I'd carry you," he says, stepping back while holding a hand out to help her, "but I don't think my back could handle it."
Her voice is slurred with sleep when she responds, listing heavily against his body on the walk down the sidewalk to the front door as she asks if that's some sort of dig at her weight. Eduardo opens the door to the lobby, calls the elevator for them. He fumbles with the key ring until she reaches between his arms and snags the little brass key to his place.
It's quiet. Alexis has moved back to college and Martha made a point of finding a different place to stay for a while; the older woman had never actually stated it but Beckett was certain she knew of the upcoming trial and respected the importance it carried. She kicks her shoes off, losing the three extra inches she had needed in the courthouse, and moves into the living room robotically. He's not following. Ceramic clicks hollowly on the granite in the kitchen.
She makes it to the bedroom before it washes over her. Keeping the panic silent until she slides under the covers of the unmade bed and can press her face to the pillows, she muffles the ragged sobs in the plush fabric.
She's supposed to be happy. Justice. Finally justice for her mom. She's supposed to be good. This is supposed to solve everything.
Instead, she's terrified.
It's crippling. She fights to take in oxygen, feels tears prick at the back of her eyes. Her fingers curl helplessly against the cool sheets.
The mattress dips a moment before he touches her elbow. "Deep breaths, Beckett." His voice cuts through the fear, water onto the raging fire. "I'm right here and you're okay. Come on."
She shifts, reaching out a hand to wrap around his wrist. She tries to hold in the hiccupping tears as she presses her mouth to the base of his thumb. "Please," she sighs brokenly. "Just… please."
He gathers her up, scooting onto the bed so his back rests on the headboard, her head in his lap. His fingertips scratch gently at her scalp, twisting her hair and letting it unravel onto his thighs and her damp cheeks. "What's wrong?" he asks in a quiet murmur. "Talk to me, Beckett."
"I'm so scared," she whispers into his jeans. "Castle, I don't think I've ever been so fucking scared."
"Of what?"
She wants, desperately, to hate him for pushing but she knows, somewhere in the unclouded part of her mind, that this'll be good in the long run. She needs to purge it. "Of what happens now."
He rolls her over, parallel to the pillows. "You live," he says, nose sliding across hers. "You take a deep breath and just live and know that you have friends right next to you the entire way."
She sneaks her hand up between them, cupping his cheek and drawing him down. The kiss tastes like salt water and tenderness. Her lips tremble when he moves his mouth over to her jaw. Her breath feathers over his cheek hotly.
His hands unbutton her shirt, tugging on the cuffs until the sleeves slide from her arms. She arches up, letting him take the shirt from under her and toss it onto one of the armchairs in the corner of the room. She works at pulling his wrinkled dress shirt from the waistband of his pants, yanking it over his head.
She slows him once his hands span her naked waist, thumbs brushing the curve of her breast through the cotton of her bra. He looks down at her, questions sparking in his eyes. But she only presses up, touching her lips to his gently. "Thank you."
She can do this. Move on and live life.
She just never thought she would not have to do it alone.