A/N: Although I read a ton, I usually have a strict rule against writing fanfiction. However, the idea for this was so strong, I just couldn't resist putting it down on paper. So, voila. My first fanfic. Hope you like it. :)
Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize. Although I wish I did.
The room is white. White walls, white floor, white ceiling. He sits in a grey chair wearing a black suit staring down at the red blood drying on his hands. He isn't focused on the blood, however. He barely even notices it is there. His mind is someplace else entirely as he sits, whispering, in the small hospital waiting room, praying for the first time in years.
He pauses and hesitantly glances up at the clock that seems to be moving impossibly slow. Has it really only been fifteen minutes since she'd gone into surgery? It feels as if a lifetime has already passed.
He sighs, closes his eyes, and goes back to praying.
The others around him are quiet as well. Shock and sorrow have rendered them speechless. From time to time, they glance at the whispering man as though afraid he will shatter into a thousand pieces. He pays them no mind. He just continues on with his prayers until something in him breaks and his voice catches in his throat. He looks up at the clock again. Only two minutes since he last checked.
He shakes his head slightly in frustration before staring down into his lap.
The clock provides a constant rhythm to his sorrow, and he concentrates on breathing in time with its cadence. Tick, breathe in. Tock, breathe out. Tick, breathe in. Tock, breathe out. It's all he can do to remember to keep taking in oxygen.
Just breathe, he tells himself. Just breathe.
But it's not long before the clock starts to sound like a heartbeat. And then his mind once again starts to drift to the operating room, and he wonders if her heart is still beating. It causes his breath to hitch, and he once again begins to pray, silently now.
He is interrupted when a woman takes a seat next to him and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"How're you doing, sweetie?" Her voice is soft.
He turns and looks into her dark eyes, seeing his pain reflected in them. He isn't surprised. Her best friend is currently in surgery after all.
"I . . ." His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat. "If she doesn't make it . . ." His voice cracks. He can't complete the sentence. The idea is too painful. The two are silent for a moment as he organizes his thoughts. He sighs.
"I can't lose her," he whispers. Her eyes soften and she looks around the room.
"None of us can."
He nods slightly and begins to fidget; it's then that she notices the blood on his hands. Her brow creases in sympathy.
"C'mon," she says. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He glances down and, for the first time, seems to notice the blood staining his palms.
"Yeah," he says softly. "Yeah, okay."
They rise from their chairs and exit the waiting room, garnering a few quizzical looks. She leads him to the bathroom down the hall and halts outside of its door.
"I'll just wait for you out here, 'kay?" she tells him. He nods and reaches for the door handle. She stops him.
"Actually, I think the cafeteria isn't too far from here. You want me to grab you a coffee or something?"
He pauses, thinks of her, and the ghost of a smile passes over his face for a fraction of a second.
"Yes. Please," he replies. "That'd be great."
He turns and moves for the door again, but she once again stops him.
"Hey . . . it's going to be okay. She's going to be okay."
His mouth tightens into a thin line and he nods before entering the small bathroom.
He flicks the light switch and takes in his surroundings for a moment. White walls once again surround him. Black and white tiles cover the floor.
He slowly and quietly moves to the sink and turns on the faucet. The sound of water running relaxes him, and he closes his eyes, focuses on breathing.
Just breathe, he tells himself. Just breathe.
He takes a few deep breaths before opening his eyes. Reaching to put his hands under the running water, he freezes halfway there, eyes fixated on his red-painted hands standing out against the bleached white surface of the sink.
He contemplates the fact that it's her blood coating his hands; that the dried blood covering his palms is a part of her, and suddenly, he doesn't want to wash it off anymore. He stands there for several long moments, torn.
But logic eventually wins the battle. He knows he can't walk around with blood on his hands forever. So he hesitantly lets the water wash over his hands and watches as she turns it red.
He squirts bright pink soap into his palms and rubs it in, washing away the last of her. The suds chase down the blood as they both swirl down the drain, and he can't shake the painful feeling that he's somehow letting go.
He dries his hands and leans on the sink, staring deeply into the mirror hanging on the wall. He doesn't recognize the man staring back at him. The man in the mirror looks to be at least ten years older than he is, with dull, lifeless eyes that are rimmed by shadows. His mouth seems to have a permanent sag to it.
The man tries on a smile. It doesn't reach his eyes.
He pushes away from the sink and despondently runs a hand down his face before going back out into the hallway. Her best friend is waiting for him there holding a cup of coffee. She hands it to him.
"You look like you need that," she says.
"I do. Thank you." He looks at her hands which are now empty. "You didn't get any for yourself?"
"I don't drink coffee, remember?" she asks with a small smile.
"Oh. Right."
They make their way back to the waiting room and reclaim their seats. A few heads once again turn their way, but no one says a word. He notices that nothing in the room has changed. Everything and everyone is still eerily quiet.
The smell of the coffee reminds him of her, and he cradles the cup as if it contains the essence of his very soul. He closes his eyes, deeply inhales the aroma, and lets the memories flood his mind.
He remembers every time he's walked into the precinct, coffee cups in hand, with shocking clarity. He remembers every time he's handed one of those cups to her and her smile as she took it. He remembers the countless hours theorizing next to the comforting presence of the espresso machine, and how angry she was when her coffee was stolen by a certain movie star. At the time, he hadn't understood why she was so upset, but he does now. His hands tighten around the coffee cup as he realizes how strong of a bond coffee has become for them, and he immediately makes a vow to bring her coffee every day for the rest of her life if she makes it through.
When, he corrects himself. When she makes it through.
The minutes continue to tick by in silence as the anxiety of the room's occupants becomes more and more palpable. Eyes start to become bleary and frowns deepen with every second that she remains in surgery. Still, no one speaks.
He nurses his coffee as the pressure in his chest gradually intensifies. All he can think about is the operating room. He sees her covered in tubes, her body sliced open where the doctors are trying to fix her. He sees the blood and hears the heart monitor. In his head, it suddenly flatlines.
He abruptly stands up and a few startled and worried looks are cast his way. He strides out of the waiting room with no destination in mind, just knowing that he needs to get away from the suffocating white walls and the piercing silence. He needs air. He needs to breathe.
He doesn't realize that his legs are taking him to the parking lot until he's outside and staring up at the sky. A bright red sunset greets him as the sun dips behind the surrounding skyscrapers.
How appropriate, he can't help but think.
He takes a few deep breaths of the fresh air, and the tightness in his chest loosens slightly.
Breathe. Breathe.
He moves to take another sip of coffee but then stops as he realizes it's gone cold. He contents himself with just holding it in his hand and closing his eyes as though it will form a connection between him and her.
For a moment, he smiles, imagining her not in the operating room, but at the precinct. He pictures her standing in front of the murder board, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tries to figure out a case. He sees her smile as the mystery begins to unravel. His heart breaks.
"Stay with me," he breathes. "Stay with me, Kate."
He remains in the parking lot for a while longer, not going back inside until the sun has almost completely disappeared. He makes his way through the hospital lobby slowly, afraid that bad news awaits his return. His mind is racing - imagining every possible scenario, every possible problem.
When he turns into the waiting area he sees a doctor leaving their room, and his mind goes into a panic. He quickens his pace, practically running down the hallway until he's standing in front of the door. He shoulders it open in a hurry and takes in the scene before him.
The silence in the room has been broken. Many of the room's occupants are hugging as murmurs and whispers tangle to create a soft harmony of sound. Tears stream down most of their faces, though their expressions are unreadable.
He sees her father and rushes over to him, distress etched in every line of his face. He doesn't speak, just gives him a look that he hopes conveys every question, every worry, every fear.
Her father puts a hand on his shoulder and whispers five words to him that cause a choked sob to escape from his lips as his coffee cup falls to the floor.
"She's going to be fine."
At last, Richard Castle could finally breathe.
A/N: Just thought I'd throw in that this was inspired by three songs: "You Found Me" by The Fray, "Just Breathe" by Pearl Jam, and "Blind" by Lifehouse (though that last one was more of a mood creator). And I would LOVE some reviews! . . . Please?