She runs.
It's what she's always done, it's the only thing she knows how to do. She runs and hides herself at her place, at her father's cabin, in the books he wrote. She finds solace in those places, in the break up with a reality that she can no longer control. Every time something gets too close, her wings take her somewhere else — take her to the gym to spend a couple of hours kicking the boxing bag; take her to the bookstores where she'll lose herself for an entire afternoon. Or, when things are truly dark, truly out of control, her feet will take her back to the precinct, back to staring at murder boards and cold cases and trying to give her brain enough material to work through without having to deal with her own reality.
Like now.
Like every time she thinks of his words, when her life was leaking from the hole in her chest.
Like after the soft spoken invitation that ended up with them drinking too much at her place, throwing lines and meaningless confessions back and forth.
She secretly loves pink; he once wrote fanmail to Marion Zimmer Bradley as a way to impress a girl.
What girl was ever impressed by that, Castle?
She went to every Jon Bon Jovi concert for a year and he dated one of the Spice Girls back in the early two-thousands (she almost falls off the couch laughing at this one — he won't tell her which of the British girls).
She has never said 'I love you' first — he has. She nods.
Yeah, I know.
The silence is enough to sober them up, as is the physical distance he puts between them. She can't help herself, the words tumble out of her mouth.
I remember it, Castle, I've known it all along.
His face, frozen in an expression that stands between the surprise of being lied to and the relief of not having to hide that reality anymore. And then it reaches him. Like a wave, she watches as his hands close into fists alongside his body, watches as his chest fills up with air and anger and pain, as his jaw sets, as it forms a strong and unmovable line. Her heart sinks when she sees it arriving at his eyes, a flare of the same kind of despair she saw in him when he uttered those words.
After another silent moment, he turns around and leaves. Just that. She stands, still, on her bare feet near the couch where they were just sharing stories and old embarrassments. Why did they start to drink in the first place? Ah, yes. A case, a tough one, lies and deceit and betrayals. A cop who murdered prostitutes — oldest case in the book, but because it's one of their own it hits closer to home than it should. So tequila seemed like a good way to forget.
She runs a hand through her hair and walks to the kitchen, leans against the counter. This is Castle. He's a forgiving man, he'll forgive her. He'll show up at the precinct — if not tomorrow, in a couple of days — with her coffee and bear claw and everything will be okay. They'll talk it out. They'll be okay.
That's why she's surprised when he doesn't call.
Three days have passed, and he hasn't called, or shown up. She hasn't heard from him at all, but she knows he's okay because the boys have been talking to him. A bad case of the flu, he says. He's at home, sick, and it gives her an excuse to pick up some chicken soup and head over there at the end of the day. The third day without hearing his voice.
She knocks on the door and is perfectly able to count the heavy steps he takes from the kitchen to the front door. About twelve steps in that fast, long stride of his. If he was on the couch, it would have taken him about eight steps. It's eerie that she knows this, but she does.
He's surprised when he sees her there, even though he's trying to hide it. He's got an old t-shirt on, sweat pants. His hair is messy, as if he's just woken up. His eyes drop to the soup container on her hands but he doesn't smile; his expression is the same from three days ago at her apartment — cold, hard. It makes her chest swell up, freeze into that awkward position because he just won't give her a break. And right now, she's not even sure she deserves it.
She shivers as she follows him into the apartment and places the container on the kitchen island. He sits on one of the stools, eyes her with a weary expression that makes her grab hold of her coat, tug it closer to her body. She's cold. Or nervous. Or both.
A bite on the lip and the words are finally falling out of her mouth. "I just wanted to see if you were okay, Castle."
His eyes never leave the container; hers never leave his face. Come on, Castle. Just a smile; just some semblance of hope that she hasn't screwed this all up.
"I'm not."
He's not okay? And he's saying it just like that, no skirting around the issue. And then she notices the dark circles under his eyes, the tension on his hands, the look of the man who hasn't slept properly in days — much like herself.
Her brain seems to be on auto-pilot, because her question is almost immediate. "Have you seen a doc —
"Don't play stupid, Kate."
His voice is ragged, airy. Like he hasn't used it in a couple of days. Like he's been speechless since their fight.
He's broken — yes, that's the perfect way to describe it. Her hands come to rest atop one another on the counter, her fingers moving quickly, shifting nervously.
"I'm sorry." She is. She knows that what she did was bad, she just doesn't see it as unforgiving. She wasn't ready to deal with her feelings, so she didn't. He can't blame her for that, can he? But yes — she also played with his feelings. And she didn't even think about that until the words were out of her mouth, three nights ago.
"Yeah."
They stand silently for God knows how long. She feels the shame and the guilt wash over her frame, feels her eyes close with the weight of the tears she didn't even consider until now. Oh God, she's sorry, she's so sorry she didn't even think about him, she's so sorry he's feeling this betrayed and she wants to say it, she wants to turn all these feelings, all this guilt into words. Words he knows; words he can understand, assimilate.
Still, they don't come out. None of it comes out until she forces it.
"I'm so, so sorry." She whispers, her voice thick with tears. She won't cry, she won't, and damn it, she feels the moisture on her cheek, her neck.
"I know. I heard you the first time."
He just won't give her a way out, will he? He'll make her suffer through a trial, through her own judgment. Through her own crooked perception of who she is, of who she's become. Of the flawed person she sees herself as, now, since that night at the hangar.
"Would you like me to stop following you?" His voice cuts through the heavy silence and makes her heart sink. What? Why would she want that? Why is he being the gentleman when she's the one who hurt him?
"No." She croaks. "No, of course not."
"Would you like me to give you some space?" And there's something in his voice, a splash of hope that wasn't there before. It's minuscule, but she can see it anyway.
"I don't know." She doesn't. She didn't come here to kiss him and be all good. Or did she? She's not really sure of why she's there right now. "I can't, I'd miss you there. So no."
He looks up. "I see."
And then it hits her. "I think I might be ready." Of course she is, she's been for a while. But she's been scared, hasn't she? She's been a coward and that hurt him, so she's not going to do it again. She might be ready, yes, she just might. So she resorts to the one terminology she knows he'll understand.
The walls aren't there anymore.
His head lifts slowly, his eyes focusing on her for the first time since he sat down. "But mine are."
Oh. Oh. Is he saying — does he need space? Is he asking her for time? Is he, oh goodness, did he talk himself out of loving her in those three days?
"I don't understand." That's all she can mutter, now that she feels her hands go numb, her eyes well up again.
"I've chased you, Kate." His voice is soft, almost paternal. "For nearly four years, I chased you like an infatuated boy." He swallows, takes a deep breath. "I'm tired."
His voice is so low she almost misses his words. She knows what this means; go home, Kate. You messed this up for good.
"Is there anything I can do to make this right?" It doesn't hurt to ask, does it?
"Yes." He nods. His hand comes up to his face, scratching his nose. It's a childlike move, one of those endearing ones that make her heart soar. "It's your turn."
"My turn?"
"It's your turn to fight for this." He whispers, and it suddenly makes sense in her head. These four years, how he was always the one to take a step forward, how he was always the one to push. In the same way she was always the one dismissing him, pushing him away. But he didn't go. He stuck by, and now he's exhausted and she can see it in his eyes, in the way he's looking at her now, hopeful and childlike. The explanation is almost unnecessary at this point, but the words leave his mouth anyway. "I've been fighting for too long, Kate."
"Okay." She says, her hand turning around and touching her palm to his. She'll do this. She'll fight for them, she'll fight for him. "I'm not letting you go, Castle. Not unless you want me to."
"I don't want you to." He whispers and she manages to smile through the tears. "I want you here."
"Then I'm here. I'm ready to fight."
A/N:
I wrote this about a week ago, and it was only after I finished it that I realized I was writing it as a release for my own issues. That's the main reason I didn't publish it earlier. But since someone insisted I did, and she actually liked it after she read it, here it is. It's short and angsty and I don't really know what I think about it.
Thank you for taking the time to read. Reviews are greatly appreciated. I hope you have a lovely rest of week!