Song lyrics are from Pink's "Beam Me Up."
Could you beam me up?
Give me a minute,
I don't know what I'd say in it,
Probably just stare, happy just to be there holding your face.
Beam me up,
Let me be lighter, tired of being a fighter,
I think, a minute's enough,
Just beam me up.
It hurts so much sometimes that she literally cannot breathe. Time stops around her, reality warps into something dark and difficult and heavy. She'd give anything, anything, to see her again, even if just for a minute. Tell her what she meant to her. Probably beg her to come back, to not leave.
Tell her how sorry she is that she had to die alone, in pain, like trash in an alley.
She's suddenly wracked by sobs, tears that take her by surprise despite this hole she knew she was falling into.
She just wants something, anything, to ease this heartache, this hole, this emptiness that runs too deep to ever feel like she could be whole again.
Some black birds soaring in the sky,
Barely a breath like our one last say,
Tell me that was you, saying goodbye.
There are times I feel the shiver and cold,
It only happens when I'm on my own,
I tell ya, tell me, I'm not alone.
Sometimes she feels it, when everything around her seems to fall into place, when she lets the light in. She secretly hopes that this is her mom, touching her, holding her, letting her feel the warmth she always knew she carried.
Could you beam me up?
Give me a minute,
I don't know what I'd say in it
I'd probably just stare, happy just to be there, holding your face.
Beam me up,
Let me be lighter, tired of being a fighter,
I think, a minute's enough,
Just beam me up.
She is so, so tired, of having to fight every step of the way. Of feeling this constant struggle, the constant need to not only battle on and find justice for her mother, but also the unending feeling of falling under, of needing to fight to just keep her head above water.
In my head, I see your baby blues,
I hear your voice and I,
I break in two and now there's
One of me, with you.
She tries to grasp onto that voice, tries to remember it. She wishes they had cell phones back then and she had voicemails she could've saved, perhaps of her mother pestering her to call her back, or whispering her love between meetings. Anything, she'd take anything.
Just beam me up,
Give me a minute,
I don't know what I'd say in it,
Probably just stare, happy just to be there, holding your face.
Beam me up,
Let me be lighter, tired of being a fighter.
Typically, this is when she stumbles. This is when she feels like she can't hold it together. And she fights, keeps fighting so hard to move forward when all she really feels is like letting it pull her under.
Typically, this is where she drags herself to bed, occasionally pours herself a drink – despite the despair that once brought to her, too. This is the point where she crumbles, falls apart, and refuses to let anyone see her this damaged, this completely and entirely broken.
Today, though, she can feel the pull of the phone, the soft voice of Castle pulling her in, helping to hold her together. She questions the wisdom of this, of putting this on him, of letting herself rely on someone else.
But she's so thoroughly tired of being a fighter. She wants to be lighter. She wants to let someone in, someone who so much wants to be in it with her, be there for her.
So she picks up the phone. He answers on the first ring, a soft murmur, calm and warm and loving. "Kate," is all he says at first, and she can't find it in her to respond without choking on emotion. "Hey, Kate. Hey. It's ok. It's ok."
It's not, she knows it's not, might never be. But his voice helps.
She takes a deep breath, clears her throat. "Hey, Castle," she manages, her voice barely above a whisper, barely making it through those two words. She wants to let him fold herself into his arms, let his warmth and his love buoy her, help her keep her head above water. But she's afraid, too. What if this ends, too, like so much of her life has already? So much taken from her, so much without warning, without even an inkling of foreboding, of fairness.
"Kate, you with me?" She realizes she's been quiet for too long. She tries to make up her mind: let his voice be enough, curl up into bed, and try to breathe through it, or ask him to come over, to hold her, just a little bit, just enough.
"Yeah," she manages at first, trying to steel herself for what she never does. "Can you, uh," she stumbles. Is this what she wants? But deep down, she knows it is, knows it's what she needs. "Castle, can you come over?"
She hears a deep breath over the line, clear relief that she's going to let him into this, let him try to shoulder some of it.
"Of course," his answer comes immediately, but softly, as though he knows that's what she needs. Not a mad dash across the city to barge through her door and try to right all that is wrong.
Just tenderness, just a touch, an anchor, to keep her afloat when everything in her world seems to be falling out from under her.
"Kate? I'm leaving now. I'll be there soon." She's grateful for the statements, no hints of questions, no forcing her to repeat her difficult request. The line clicks off before she can even thank him.
Soon, he's there, and he's holding her, and she does cry. Not too much, not an outburst, but it's something. He rubs her back, whispers his love and strength into her ear.
"Kate, let's go to bed," he says after a long while of this embrace that is helping her so much. He leads her to her bedroom, hand on the small of her back, and softly, with so much tenderness she nearly cries again, pulls her shirt over her head, snaps her bra off, slides her stiff pants down her legs. He leads her to sit on the edge of her bed as he ruffles around her top drawer for a comfortable t-shirt. Finding something soft and worn, he walks over, pushes it over her head. Then he lays her down, pulls the blankets up around her. He walks to his side, strips to his boxers and undershirt, and lays close enough that she can feel him, but not so much on top of her, unsure of what sort of physical comfort she wants.
She reaches back for him, pulls his arm across her waist as she scoots closer to him. Eventually, her breathing evens out, her heart falling into rhythm with the steady bum bum bum of his, and her eyes close.
Before she drifts off, she places a soft kiss to one of the arms around her. "Thank you, Castle," she whispers. His reply is a soft grumble and a tight squeeze and release of her waist, and they both fall asleep, a former night of mourning turned somewhat around.
Maybe letting him in isn't so bad, so scary, as she once thought.
Maybe, just maybe, he's enough to beam her up.