A/N: This is something that has been bouncing around in my head for a while. It is a part of the "I Reject Your Reality and Substitute My Own" story collection that I store in my head.

Everything through the end of the third season exists in my reality, although I have added a few family members to Kate's family tree. Everyone needs family.

I am departing from the events in season four. If you don't like that choice, please do not read any further.

It goes without saying that I own nothing.

In the document below italicized words with slashes - /like this/ indicate words that Kate crossed out in her letter.

The title comes from the Cake song, Shadow Stabbing.

Say It All

Summary: After asking Castle to give her space, a recovering Kate Beckett begins to take stock of her life and decides what things are important to her. Recognizing that she is an emotional cripple as far as Rick is concerned, she takes a baby step to reach out to him. A letter is an odd tool to choose when trying to break down a wall, but if she keeps this keeps up, it may be surprisingly effective.

July 17, 2011

/Castle/ Rick,

I like rules. Or rather, I like the illusion of safety that rules provide to me.

I am well aware of how much of a shock that is to you, my preference for rules - or safety. Sometimes it seems that the more arbitrary the rules, the better I like them.

When I was younger, I would sometimes hang out with my cousins. Around dinnertime, we'd all be given chores. Frankie, the youngest and only boy, generally had to set the table. Whenever I was over, he would make sure to set the forks on the right side and the knives and spoons on the left.

Given that you are– despite the number of times I've accused you of being a nine year old on a sugar high – quite polished when in polite company, you already understand the WRONGNESS of Frank's table setting decisions.

I suppose it was a kind of game for us. He watched me go all twitchy when I noticed the wrongness. I tried not to react. I will admit that I generally lost, because it was more important to me to have the silverware set properly than to "win." (Yes, I chose to lose. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

Not that you needed additional proof of my preference for structure….

All that being said, here are the rules. These rules are completely arbitrary, but I need to explicitly spell them out, otherwise I will talk myself out of a lot of things.

- Once I start writing a letter, I cannot throw it out and start over.

Why? Because I will manage to drive myself crazy over how imperfect every letter is. Every letter will end up in the trash, and I will never communicate with you. This will lead to my feeling frustrated and guilty. I refuse to allow that to happen.

- I am, however, allowed to cross out bits and pieces of the letter (my maternal grandmother always insisted that it was a woman's duty to embrace the ability and right to change one's mind - a god-given right, or some such nonsense. In this case, her beliefs work for me).

- Once I start a letter, I must finish it.

The ending can be as lame as "I don't want to write anymore today. Sincerely…."

Why letters?

Before I get into that, I want to say something important.

Thank you for giving me space. Thank you for…well, not for understanding. I'm not entirely sure that you do. But you gave – are giving me – exactly what I asked for, and I truly appreciate it.

My Uncle Lou – my dad's brother – has macular degeneration. When he started losing his eyesight, my dad tried to help, tried to be there for him. Uncle Lou continually pushed him – and most of the family away. Even his wife was pushed away. I know it hurt my dad a lot, wanting to help, but being shut out. If I understand Uncle Lou at all, I'd say he was so afraid that he would be completely helpless if he let people do for him. At least there was some comfort for him in knowing that he pushed himself really hard to adjust to his blindness.

/I know/ I think that my request for time and space has hurt you. /I regret that, but I can't/ I'm sorry. /With all of my heart, I am sorry. I don't suppose the apology is worth much, but it is true, never the less./

I'm staying with my dad right now. Did you know that? There seemed to be a list of people ready and willing to hover over me and fuss. /Since I'm trying not to be entirely like Uncle Lou, I'm doing my best to exercise my rather limit patience./ I figured Dad needs me most.

He'd be hurt and offended, I think, if he knew that I was staying with him because I think of him as being fragile. I have no plans to tell him. /You tell him and I will not only deny it, but I will hunt you down and make you/

/Dad's doing his best not to hover, but/

I appreciate the breathing room more than I can say. /I hate words. There is no easy, unaffected, and sincere way to tell you that you have given me a gift that means more to me than I can say. I trust you, and I thank you, and I appreciate you. But every time I try to write it out, it sounds fake and horrible. I HATE words! How can you stand to work with the bloody, stupid, fucking things every day?/

Oh, and one more thing that you need to know. /(Another stupid thing I want to communicate, but always comes out wrong, wrong, WRONG!)/

I heard about what /the jackass/ Josh said to you. I am sorrier than I can say.

I liked him, you know. We were easy together. Uncomplicated. I don't know that we would have made it for the long haul, but I almost didn't have to think when he was around. /(That was probably part of the problem. I don't know that he ever really cared what I was thinking. Maybe...probably...I didn't care what he was really thinking, either.)/

Despite the…whatever it was that we were settling for, what he said to you – accusing you of being at fault – is a load of crap. He had no right to say those things.

He claims that he was overwrought, stunned by my sudden appearance in his OR. If that was the case, though, he should have had no problem apologizing to you for it.

He refused.

Jackass.

We broke up because we really weren't right for each other, but his treatment of you…it was a factor. You deserve so much better.

Esposito mentioned that you have said things to the effect that you are to blame.

Bullshit, Castle. That's bullshit and you get that thought out of your head right now.

- You did not pull the trigger.

- I'm a cop. I'm in the line of fire. I chose this life and I know the potential consequences.

- You have done nothing but try to protect me in so many ways since the beginning. You have nothing to regret or beat yourself up over.

Your new mantra – should you need it – "It's not my fault. It's not my fault."

I will make you write it 500 times if I suspect at all that you are still guilty of being an idiot and buying into that crap.

Besides, you should know by now that I am always right.

Now, back to why I'm writing a letter to you:

(I'm going to keep this short, because I find that I'm tired of writing.)

Cassie is my cousin and she is three years older than I am.

When she went off to college, I started the habit of writing to her. Email was around, but it was more satisfying for me to write – pen to paper – to her.

I never really wrote anything important. What could I have been writing to her that was earth shattering? I was in high school, for the love of god.

I wrote to her because I missed her. I wrote to her because I wanted to make her smile. I suppose, in the self-centeredness of youth, I wrote to her because I didn't want her to ever think that we – her family – had forgotten her while she was away.

I'm writing to you because I miss you, even if I'm not ready for you to see me.

I'm cranky – even when I'm trying to be patient. I don't like snapping at people – and I'd rather not take my bad temper out on you. I'm really angry…all-the-time angry...I-wish-I-could-justify-throwing-dishes-at-the-wall-so-I-can-hear-the-very-satisfying-crash angry. I hate going to therapy – physical and mental, both, but I'm doing it because I have to, because it'll make me (shudder) better. /The appointments with the psychologist are the worst. I dread them. I endure them. I feel completely wrung out afterwards. Perhaps I wish I could strangle my perky, blonde physical therapist for the completely inane things she chirps out while she is busy torturing me. That I can bear: her pain-in-the-ass perkiness. The psychology appointments, though, are hell./

I'm writing to you because I don't want you to ever think that I have forgotten you, or discarded you, or whatever. /(Oh, that's eloquent, Kate. Nice to know that you have a solid grasp of the English language.)/

I will write again later.

Kate

P.S. I spent a good twenty minutes debating if I should add this note or not. I can't seem to stop myself from prefacing this with how much I appreciate you giving me space. If you want to, ONLY if you WANT to, you may write back. You have my email address. I might stick with pen and paper, though, so if you decide to reply/...and you may not want to. For all I know you are completely pissed at me. Well, fuck,/ I'm over thinking this. It's your choice. The End.