Journey

AN: Episode reaction to 5x06, 'Final Frontier.'

He looked at himself in the mirror, eyes somber as he regarded each detail in concentration, adjusting the wide-rimmed black glasses on his nose, the knot of the blue and red striped tie before he tucked the end underneath the red wool sweater vest.

Slicking his hair back, he contemplated, some memories as fresh and sharp as if it were yesterday. Sometimes he could still smell the polish that was scrubbed onto the linoleum floors, and the sickening stench of the harsh, lime toilet cleaner. No wonder he couldn't stomach mojitos.

The image he saw was familiar, and yet not, the little boy inside having outgrown that past, that life just as he had outgrown those clothes. He didn't much think of it, ever, really, because he'd made it, left it all behind. He was a different person now, and where was the point in delving back into moments that broke you in half at the time?

When she called his name, he was prepared, grabbing the black book as prop under his arm. Ready to open the door, and step outside.

She woke to the warm scent of waffles, the thick curl of sugary dough and hints of cinnamon that drifted to her nose. Stretching her arms high over her head she arched, curved her spine on a small groan before she curled in on herself, snuggled back into the comforter. She opened her eyes slowly, savoring the stillness of the morning.

The tray rested next to her on the bed, the thick waffle delectable, baked golden-brown and dusted with powered sugar, a dollop of whipped cream, sliced strawberries scattered atop. There were slices of bacon too, and a mug with piping hot coffee, vanilla-scented steam swirling in the air.

Servings for one.

"Castle?" She sat up and pushed her hair behind her ear, looking around but all doors were closed, no sounds disrupting the quiet hum of the loft.

"No laughing, Kate," his voice suddenly came from behind the closed bathroom door, repeating her instructions from last night and she leaned back against the headboard, at once both excited and apprehensive about what would await her. His appreciation for all things 'nerdy' ran deep, be it comic books, sci fi shows or gory foreign movies, which is why she'd been so surprised, shocked even, that he didn't share the enjoyment for her show.

Taking the mug from the tray, she took a long sip from her coffee, for fortification or seeking comfort in the familiar, she didn't quite know. She'd really, really surprised him last night, and it hadn't necessarily been a good thing. She sighed, shaking her head. And yet he had still made her breakfast, just as he had promised.

"I'm gonna show you something that I don't share with anybody."

He stepped through is bathroom door, and she almost dropped her coffee mug. She placed it back on the tray with shaking hands, more shocked than if he'd been wearing a Spiderman suit or Boba Fett's outfit. She wasn't sure what she was looking at but this wasn't what she'd expected. At all.

"Castle?"

He didn't answer, only regarded her solemnly, his eyes dark behind the thick, dorky glasses on his nose. His hair was slicked back, the strands looking crunchy from the abundance of hair gel, a black book tucked underneath his armpit. And it looked like he was wearing a school uniform. A tie hidden mostly by a sweater vest, white collared shirt underneath, black shorts with a strict pleat down the front and his knobby knees sticking out from under it. His calves were encased in ridiculous, white socks with the blue rims on the top, and ending with his feet in shiny black, clunky shoes.

It would look funny if he didn't seem so serious, quietly looking at her, before he flailed out an arm, looking off into the distance instead.

'Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,…' He suddenly began reciting the familiar poem, his speech grave, dramatic as he dove into the rhythm of the verses, emphasized and halted at words, his hands underscoring the notes of his recital, lowering his voice for effect at certain passages, and she realized the dramatic flair in him, the talent that he probably inherited from Martha.

'Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door…'

And as she sat, he recited Poe's entire poem to her, every word by heart, flowing out from deep inside of him and she wondered how often he'd done this, and how long it had been since he had allowed himself last to be that person, had tolerated this part of himself to see the light of day. She was stunned by the beauty of it, the strength and intensity of emotion, shocked by the layer of pain that seemed to live within his every word.

'And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!'

He ended on the final verse, almost falling in on himself after the crescendo of the words, and he was only slightly surprised that he still knew it all by heart, every rhyme and word burned into his brain. How it just burst from him, full of passion and pathos, how it drained him too.

Soaking in a deep breath he shook himself free of its claws, finding his focus in Kate instead. She was sitting on his bed, leaned forward attentively, her eyes wide and brimming, lips parted in wordless shock.

"Rick," she whispered and then he stumbled forward, at once needing the comfort of her closeness, and folded his hand into her outstretched one as he sat down on the bed next to her knees.

"That was me, Kate." He spoke quietly, the words starting to flow on the childhood of which he had suppressed so much. "The quiet, socially awkward kid that would stand up on the bench in the middle of the cafeteria and recite 'The Raven' to everybody, out loud just because I wanted to, needed to share the words, the beautiful drama, the clench and rapture of the rhythm. I couldn't understand for a long time why they all just laughed at it. At me. How they didn't get it." Kate ran her thumb over his knuckles in slow, comforting circles, her other hand resting quietly on top of his knee. He wasn't sure he ever wanted her to know this person, this Rick, but now the story seemed to seek her on its own accord.

"Mother was full of dramatic flair, flighty – well, you know her – that I soaked up whatever was consistent, everything that was dramatic and intense in the complete opposite way to her, everything that was substantial. I lived with my nose in books; I didn't really have any other friends besides the words. I was the one they made fun of, or pushed ahead of the crowd when they needed a scapegoat.

"That scar on the side of my left hip?" She nodded, familiar with the long, zigzag pattern of the raised line on his skin that she sometimes kissed so reverently.

"Couple of the boys thought it funny to tie my shoelaces together while I was sitting at my desk. I was completely engrossed in something, so I didn't notice. When I got up I stumbled, practically flew forward, and I scraped open the whole side at a sharpened edge of the desk. It was a deep gauge; I still remember seeing the bone sticking out." He felt her shuddering through the clasp of her fingers around his, and he was surprised by the warm comfort that flowed through him, when he had believed he was over all that, past the painful misfortune that was his childhood. How often had he wished for the grasp of a comforting hand, the arms of his mother in those dark days, away at boarding school, feeling helpless and alone and misunderstood.

"Gave me ten stitches. I was dunked into toilets, locked in closets, lured out into the yard with no clothes on… Don't ask," he added with a lopsided grin, noticing her raised eyebrow, but then he slid his fingers over the facets of her face, cradling his palm around her cheek.

"That was when I didn't know where I fit, when the only things that made sense to me in life was the poetry of the written word. That was me before I became me," he emphasized, sharing with her the only part of himself he'd always been truly embarrassed about, that he'd hidden so far away that sometimes he managed to forget.

He'd made fun of her and Nebula 9 incessantly and yet she had shared her story anyway, had told him why it mattered, with her intense conviction and well-chosen words that always weaved him into her net, completely enthralled him. And after she'd scared the living daylights out of him last night - and he guessed he'd deserved that - that's when he got it; realized that he owed her this in return. But not just owed, he finally wanted to give that to her.

This time, it wasn't a made-up tale about a dead child on the shore of the Hamptons, this time he gave her the truth, raw and uncensored and embarrassing.

Kate's breathing was shallow, quiet as she took in every one of his words, felt his story shudder through her, his pain leaping in her heart, clogging her throat. She'd often wondered what his childhood was like, his comments about and to his mother such a contradiction in both respect and quiet reproach, no longer biting but there nevertheless, still alive underneath the protections he'd built up. Much of his past was walled up, carefully guarded and hidden away.

"Eventually I discovered what people responded to," he continued his tale and she shifted closer, caressing her hand up and down his thigh.

"I guess all the reading, the quiet observation gave me the tools to understand them, see what made them tick. I found the world of comic books like other adolescent boys, of course, and the universes of science fiction. And I found humor. I became the funny kid, the one that pulled off stupid stunts only to learn how to get away with it, how to charm my way out of almost everything. I learned to manipulate their gullibility." He quieted for a moment, contemplating his words, seemingly deep in thought, wading through memories, maybe regrets and Kate stayed silent, immovable, waiting him out.

"Fame and fortune greased the way eventually, just made it easier for me to get my way. It made me who I am, taught me how I needed to be different from this child who was teased, who had no recourse, no voice. I stripped it off like you eventually took off Lieutenant Chloe's costume for the last time."

"It's still a part of you though," she said, pressing a tender kiss to the edge of his hand, her cheek nudged into the warmth of his palm. "We can't strip off our past just like that. It lives within us, forms us. Isn't that why you became a writer?" She looked at his eyes, could tell by the deeper intake of breath that she was close to the truth. "Not just because the words spoke to you. You wanted to dig deeper into what makes people tick, why they do what they do, their motivations and their thoughts. You needed to understand them."

It was all so much clearer in her mind, the picture having reformed, reassembled, the parts fitting like puzzle pieces. She'd seen it in his writing before; it's what had attracted her to the books in the first place, and then to the man himself, even back when she couldn't admit it yet. How he looked at the crime yet he dove behind the scenes instead. Murder was just a vehicle, a way for him to crack open the twisted paths of his characters' minds, expose them for the world to see.

He nodded, bringing his palm around the curve of her waist. "And because I've realized that there are people like you, too, whose stories I wanted to tell. People who see the dark sides of humanity, who experience drama and tragedy and yet they stay true to their hearts, their convictions. People who fight the good fight but they are still them, they are honest and fearless, adventurous, funny and sweet and loving and passionate."

Her heart hammered with the intensity of his words, his reverence and love for her so clear, almost overwhelming as the beautiful words tumbled from his lips and she could only stare, lips open on a silent gasp. His eyes shone at her, dark blue and delighted with her, his thumb trailing up her side, glancing past the underside of her breast, and heat bloomed over her skin.

"And sexy. Oh yeah, so very sexy."

She smiled, pulled herself closer and ruffled her fingers through his hair until the gelled strands were unruly and sticking up in all directions and he looked more like himself. Leaning closer his hot breath whispered over her lips.

"Thank you for my breakfast."

He nudged his nose to hers, angling her jaw with his fingertips, his lips gently sliding against hers. "Does this mean I'm off the hook for the Nebula 9 marathon?"

She nipped at his bottom lip, traveled her tongue along the seam of his mouth.

"No."

Thank you to my amazing wife for brainstorming this piece with me (and letting me stay up to write it. ;)) I love you!