You've carried on so long,
You couldn't stop if you tried it
You've built your wall so high,
That no one could climb it
But I'm gonna try
Would you let me see beneath your beautiful?
Would you let me see beneath your perfect?
Take it off now, girl, take it off now, girl
I want to see inside
Would you let me see beneath your beautiful tonight?
-Beneath Your Beautiful, Labrinth
(If you have never heard that song, I suggest you listen to it. Right now. Like, if you have to choose between reading this fic and listening to that song, listen to the song. Seriously.)
He could make jokes about coffee every day for the rest of his life, and it would never be enough.
He could say always a million times over, and it would never be enough.
He could try though. He would. He will.
But what he can't do anymore – what he will not do anymore – is pretend to not see.
Because he sees, dammit, and not going to her, not trying to be there for her, is tearing him up inside.
And maybe that's selfish, him complaining about how much pain she's in. Maybe it's selfish that he's standing in front of her door, fist up, about to knock, right after she thanked him for giving her space.
But he can't continue to pretend not to see her.
And he thinks that maybe, just maybe, she's tired of trying to hide.
The woman – the girl, really – who opens the door is not Beckett.
He's not even sure it's Kate.
This girl is unsure, hesitant, wary (of him? he pushes that thought away, swallows it down) – all the things she never lets him see.
She's sad and maybe broken but oh, is she beautiful like this.
She doesn't make eye contact with him. Won't look up. Doesn't say a word.
And then he realizes that he hasn't said anything either. He's just standing outside the door, frozen, his mind just catching up to the fact that he even had the guts to show up at all.
He came empty-handed; he knew better than to bring her something to drink, and he also knew better than to hide his visit behind some random bouquet of flowers.
No pretense. He just needs her to know that he sees her.
But now that she's in front of him, looking terribly uncomfortable and just so very sad, he's not even sure what to do or say.
He looks her up and down, notices that her hair is no longer pulled back so severely from her face, is instead sort of half up, her natural waves somewhat untamed. She's wearing a soft-looking purple sweater and a pair of jeans.
She looks both much better and much worse.
Because while her clothing and her hair say one thing, her eyes say something else entirely.
She's quite obviously been crying, for god only knows how long.
She looks just this side of desperate.
He wishes he knew what it is that she's desperate for.
When he continues to say nothing, she opens the door wider in invitation and turns, walking towards the couch.
He follows, of course, closes the door softly behind him.
She sits down, picks up a mug from the coffee table, practically hides her face in it.
He sits on the other side of the couch, trying to give her space.
She looks so very small with her legs tucked underneath her, her sleeves pulled down past her hands.
The image of a white bandage that he caught sight of earlier flashes into his mind and he just barely manages to stop himself from reaching out.
But then he decides to stop stopping himself.
He moves next to her on the couch.
She visibly tenses.
"Kate," he sighs, the word mostly air.
She ducks her head down, her loose waves falling around her in a curtain.
He reaches his hand out to slowly, softly, brush the hair behind her ear.
She freezes.
And then she stands up.
He grabs hold of her hand just in time and that gets her attention.
She looks at his face, then his hand, then back at his face.
He doesn't withdraw.
"Kate. Please sit with me." He knows his plea is pathetic, definitely unfair, but he can't find it in him to care.
"Castle – " she starts, her voice shaking, both a warning and a request.
He shakes his head once, firm.
"Kate. Please."
She deflates, her body going limp, but she doesn't sit.
He experimentally pulls gently on her arm, unwilling to really use physical force against her, but equally unwilling to let her just walk away from him.
She all but collapses down next to him, squeezes herself in the small space between his body and the stiff arm of the couch, facing forward and unblinking, her body tense, but right up against his, points of contact all up their sides.
Encouraged, he slowly brings his hand off of her arm, then above her head, and finally across her shoulders, tries to pull her towards him in an awkward, twisted hug.
His heart clenches at the lack of smooth, Castle, real smooth comment that he knows he deserves.
Instead, she stiffens, silent and tense.
He makes no move to back off and, much to his surprise, he feels her start to let go, piece by piece, muscle by muscle.
And then all at once she's leaning on him, her face buried in his neck, her hands fisted in the front of his shirt.
Before he has time to even process all of that, he feels dampness on his neck, realizes suddenly that Kate Beckett is crying in his lap.
He stops holding back, wraps his arms around her, rocks her as he whispers into her hair.
"It's okay, Kate. I'm here. It's okay."
She stops crying almost as soon as she starts and pulls abruptly out of his embrace.
He's too stunned by the entire exchange to stop her in time.
She's off the couch, standing with her back to him, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, trying in vain to hide the evidence of what just occurred.
"Kate," he gets out, his voice low but firm.
"You should go," she responds – the first full sentence she's uttered – as she walks toward the kitchen.
He stands and follows her. "No," he replies, voice still pitched low but sure.
She turns at that, raises shocked eyes to his face. She must see something in his eyes because her defiance quickly gives way, shutters coming up to hide whatever is lurking behind it. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have – "
"Don't even think of finishing that sentence," he interrupts, feeling anger rising up within him.
Which one of them he's angrier with, he's not sure.
He takes a deep breath, unclenches his fists.
And then he says everything he's held in for the last week.
"You're obviously hurting, Kate, and I tried to give you space. I did give you space. I watched you fall apart this week, more than once, and I stayed back, because that's what you wanted from me. That's what I thought you needed. Maybe that's what you thought – still think – you needed. But it's not. It can't be. You need more. You deserve more, Kate."
He stops, tries to rein it in, because he knows that this still isn't a fair fight, but he doesn't care because he just needs her to know.
So he plows forward, the words pouring out unchecked, all that he's wanted to say for much longer than just a week.
"I see it. I know you don't want me to see it, but I do. And I can't pretend I don't anymore. I won't pretend. It's not helping either one of us. So I need you to let me see, Kate. Let me see because we both deserve more. Because I told you I love you and I think that you know that already, but even if you don't or you won't, I'm saying it again: I love you, Kate. Maybe you don't love me back but you have to know that it was true then, it was true well before then, and it will continue to be true. No matter what you do or do not let me see. So just let me see you, even if it's just for tonight. Let me see you because you deserve more than this."
He sees her chest rising and falling more rapidly before, as though she can't get air in fast enough, or deep enough, and he is suddenly sick with the realization that he has made her panic.
So, of course, he panics. He starts walking toward her when he realizes that maybe crowding her isn't going to be particularly helpful. He starts to walk backwards, trying to give her space, and finds his back against her counter.
He goes back, tries to hear what he said, how bad the damage might've been, but he can't come up with anything, can hardly recall any of his words over the harsh beating of his heart in his ears.
"Oh god, Kate, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice. I shouldn't have come here making demands. I'm sorry," he's blabbering, rambling, but he doesn't know what else to do.
All he wanted was to take some of her pain, to help shoulder some of the burden.
But all he ever seems to do is make it worse.
It all flashes before him – reopening her mother's case, the body count, the sniper, this woman right here, so broken over it all – and he just wants to run, wants to go back and undo it all, un-ask to shadow her.
"I'm sorry," he hears himself still saying, his voice hoarse, the words clawing at his throat. He wants to go, thinks his very presence must be making her life worse, but he also can't just leave her like this, having some sort of anxiety attack in the middle of her kitchen.
He's about to say more, to ask her what he can do, to apologize for everything, for all of it, to tell her he'll leave her alone forever if she'll just stop being so sad, when she suddenly crashes into him, almost completely knocking him down.
Automatically, his arms go up to catch her, just managing to keep them both upright with the counter at his back. Not sure how long he can hold them both up but (quite obviously) unwilling to let her go even for a second, he opts to slide slowly down onto the floor, the counter against his back, pulling her down with him into his lap.
He holds her as she cries, as her breath comes in fits and starts.
He whispers into her hair, apologies and comfort and just words, anything and everything that he can think of to say.
Eventually, she stands up. But instead of just turning and walking away like he expects, like she had only minutes (hours? he's lost all track of time, of anything that isn't Kate), she puts her hand out to help him up.
He's surprised, but he quickly wipes it off his face, takes her proffered hand.
She doesn't let go even once he's upright.
And then he's being pulled along, through her apartment, into her bedroom. He wants to look around, try to soak up all of the dimensions of Kate that he's sure he could uncover from just glancing at a shelf, but he doesn't dare do anything to upset whatever precarious balance he's managed to strike.
She squeezes his hand lightly before dropping it. He feels the loss of warmth immediately and painfully.
She silently walks around the bed, pulls the covers up, and climbs in.
He stares, stunned, unsure what to do next.
Surely, she doesn't mean to invite him to stay.
But then she's reaching her hand out again, beckoning him.
He slips out of his shoes then copies her, pulling back the comforter to get in.
They lie there, on their sides, facing one another in silence for some time.
He's afraid to move or even to breathe, afraid to break whatever spell has been cast.
After what feels like an eternity, she scoots closer. Her hand reaches up, seemingly of its own accord, and then her palm is against his cheek, her thumb soft under his eye.
He sighs into it, can't even help himself, and her lips turn up at the corners, a soft, quiet, timid sort of smile.
"Thank you," she whispers into the space between them.
He's about to object, but she shakes her head once, firm. Repeats it.
Then she withdraws her hand, wiggles a little under the obvious pretense of getting comfortable while, in fact, getting closer.
Still, he doesn't dare react.
She's clearly about to drift off, fall right over into sleep, give in to the exhaustion that she so obviously has been battling this week (month, year, decade), so he hardly breathes, unwilling to disturb her.
Just before she falls over the edge, she whispers, "I see you, too."
And then he follows right behind, falling over with her as always, even as he tries to stay awake and savor the moment.
When he wakes up, she's not there.
But that's okay. She couldn't have gone very far.
He told her, and she didn't run.
She gave it back to him.
It's more than he ever thought he would get.
It's exactly what he needed. What she needed. What they needed.
It's everything.