Someone suggested that I precede the story with a warning, so here it is. May contain triggers to anyone who's lost a child.

It's been a week.

Time has slowed down, so slow, so heavy, but then-

He doesn't know what he's done in 7 days, what's happened.

Nothing happened. Everything happened.

He doesn't know the last time he showered. Thinks maybe it was Tuesday, before his afternoon meeting at Black Pawn. Must've been Tuesday.

So he hasn't showered in seven days either. His shirt is stale with their tears and her mascara is still smudged against the crook of his elbow. He tried to rub it off with his thumb, but it still lingers. Still stains his skin.

He really should shower, but-

He knows once he steps foot into the tub and pulls the curtain around him that he'll lose it. He'll see her sitting there again, the harsh, scalding water slipping down her face. He'll see himself reaching for her with shaky fingers, his body wracking with grief as he pulls her to him and brushes his mouth against her wet skin as she clenches the fabric of his shirt in her wrinkled fingers.

Her quiet sobs echo in his head, something out of a nightmare. It's Groundhog Day reprised, magnified a thousand times over because it's the worst day of his life and he hasn't figured out how to make it stop.

So he just sits in his chair. And waits.

Waits for the pain to subside, for his heart to start putting itself back together again-

Waits for her.

She went back to work two days ago without a word to him. He was lying awake at 6 a.m., like he has been for the last six days, and he watched her crawl out of bed and slide into the bathroom. The bed is cold without her in it, but he doesn't miss her warmth. She's spent the last six nights on her side of the bed, hiding behind an invisible wall, her body curling into itself. Every night at the same time he lifts a hand to her, but it never finishes its journey. He's made it inches away before it falls to his side again, thwarted once again.

He watched her get dressed and he knows she noticed, but not a word crossed her lips. Her movements were less than graceful, stiff arms slipping into the sleeves of her oxford shirt, legs of jelly fumbling into her dress pants. Quivering fingers buttoned her shirt from the bottom up, when he only ever remembers her starting from the top down. He should've said something, some variation of don't go I need you just as much as you need me please, but the words never came. This morning was worse because he couldn't watch himself fail again, fail her again, so he forced his eyes shut and listened to her slow breathing and heavy, sluggish footsteps.

So much alike. So far apart.

Esposito called him yesterday, growled a what the hell is she doing here into his ear, but he didn't know what to say. I wanted to stop her but I didn't know how to make it better sounded pathetic in his head. So he hung up the phone without a word, apologies stuck in his throat.

He doesn't dare move, prefers the numbing lack of movement in his limbs. He knocked over a glass earlier in his state of exhaustion and sliced his thumb against the sharp edge of one of the broken pieces. His blood dripped quickly onto a sheet of paper before his brain could think to shove the injury into his mouth.

Instead he watched the stain spread and then he was back there, startled awake in the harsh light of dawn, damp in a cold sweat to find her doubled over in their bed, a hand at her stomach, eyes wide with fear. He was back there, lifting her carefully from the spot where it all went wrong and carrying her into the cab to settle her into his lap, his mouth pressed against her pale, clammy face.

I love you. it's gonna be okay Kate. it has to be okay. he's fine. he's gonna be fine Kate. just fine.

But it wasn't long before the hospital sheets resembled their bed sheets.

He wasn't fine.

He wants her to come home, wants to hold her and cling to the hope that they'll make it through this.

But she can barely look at him and he swears he sees disgust swirling in her eyes in the few times he's managed to catch her gaze. It rips through him like a jagged knife and he forces himself to look away, manages to keep the bile from rising too far in his throat.

Not that he's eaten in days. He remembers an apple on Thursday. Half a cold slice of pizza on Saturday washed down with a tumbler full of whiskey.

He attempted once to write his grief away, but the words aren't enough this time. They don't take the sting away and the ache is as gaping as ever, burning a hole through his chest, threatening to consume him into a black hole of emptiness.

He finally shifts so he can check the time when he hears the front door open. He knows immediately that it's not his mother or Alexis; it takes the door far too long to close. His muscles bunch as he cranes his neck, his fingers curling in protest against the arms of the office chair.

The sun is still warm and bright in the sky-all wrong-so he wonders if maybe his instincts are wrong. Maybe-

But then she's stepping into his office, small and thin in her heavy peacoat, her hair tangled in messy, uncoordinated waves down her shoulders. Her eyes follow the line of the floor before she stops in front of him.

He sucks in a harsh breath and her eyes are a dead, listless brown as she lifts her head to find him in the same spot she found him in yesterday. He opens his mouth to say something anything but it's only hot air that lingers between them, empty and meaningless.

Why are you home he wants to ask. I love you he wants to say. I need you he wants to plead.

"Gates sent me home," she offers, her voice small and flat. He swallows hard, forces his head to nod in response.

She shuffles a step closer and his eyes find her hands, clenching and releasing at her sides.

"Kate," he croaks, his lips cracking, so dry-

But then she's gone, ghosting past him to barricade herself in their bedroom. Damn.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do. He sits. And waits.

Only this time he doesn't know what he's waiting for.

He wakes to a room submerged in darkness. He wipes the drool from his mouth with a slow hand, his eyes blinking furiously to adjust to the lack of light. It's mere moments of swimming in darkness before he hears it-

Hears her.

Quiet, muffled sobs.

Kate.

It takes him longer than he'd like, the piece of furniture is practically molded to his body at this point. There's not any part of him that doesn't groan, doesn't protest at his will to move. He catches his toe on the edge of the desk, sending a shooting pain through his foot. He hisses, lets his hand fall to his desk to give himself a moment before he tries again.

It's ages before he's even in the doorway, but there's a sliver of light that comes out of their bathroom, so he can navigate much easier. He's not quiet as he walks in, doesn't know how to walk softly anymore-

Doesn't know how to not disturb her anymore.

He finds her on his side of the bed, face pressed into his pillow, shivering. He falls onto the side she usually sleeps on. His hands immediately find the blanket she kicked to her ankles and pulls it over her shuddering form.

Her slim fingers wrap around his thick ones as he starts to slide his hand away from her. He stills in surprise, waiting on bated breath.

It's forever until she speaks. "Aren't you tired of doing this alone?" she rasps. When he doesn't answer, she slowly turns on her other side, finally facing him. Her brown eyes shimmer with tears, red-rimmed and puffy.

"Say something," she pleads, lifting a trembling hand to brush against his jaw. Her light, loving touch is all it takes for him to start crying, too.

"I'm sorry," he says thickly.

She recoils, her hand thumping to the sheet. "It's not your fault."

"But I don't know how to make it better."

"Oh Castle," she nudges her head into the crook of his neck, pulling him into her. Her wet eyelashes brush against his skin as she lets out a slow, shaky breath. "You can't," she confesses.

"I've failed you, Kate," he chokes, threading his fingers through her hair.

"No," her voice is strong and firm this time. She leans down to kiss his chest, through to his heart that still manages to beat. "You're the only thing keeping me from drowning," she whispers.

He gently forces her up so he can press his forehead against hers. His thumbs are rough against her cheek, a little hard, a little bruising. "I loved him so much. So much already," he gasps painfully.

Her nails scrape against his jaw in response, digging half-moons into his skin. "I know," she says hoarsely. "I loved him too, Castle."

And then her mouth is on his, harsh and bruising. He can taste their tears on her tongue, everything that they've lost. He loses himself in her kiss, the only thing he knows how to do. She nips at his lip, rough and biting before she soothes the ache with her tongue.

He breaks away on a pant against her cheek, nudging his nose against her skin. She brushes her mouth against his cheek, closing her eyes on a broken sigh. "I love you, Castle."

That night she falls asleep on his side of the bed, his arms curved around her, just under her chest.

And when they wake in the morning-

it's been 8 days.

Incredibly dark, I know. Not really sure where this one came from.

Love to hear from you,

Liv