A/N: This is not a fix-it fic. Episode insert for 8x02. Takes place after the scene with Rita. Coarse language? Not enough for M though.
Driving around seems the way to go. After a conversation like that, at least.
Normally, the city streets would suffice. Tonight, though, Beckett opts for the freeway.
Nowhere to exit for miles. Putting off heading home. Blasting her thoughts as the playlist of the ride.
The only sound that competes is the zoom of passing cars. People going home. Maybe people going home to their families after a long day of work. People traveling to see someone they love. Or, people going away, somewhere far.
Alone.
What place does she fall?
Think.
We can make this work. We can. Just like always.
Castle. That's what he'd say, again.
How the fuck is this gonna work?
One hand curled into a fist around the wheel, her free one slicks across her forehead, fingers pressing the center particularly hard to ease the headache pounding away. Eventually she props her elbow onto the door to rest her chin onto the second fist she's made, inspired by frustration.
Frustrated by the reality of choice.
How can one stupid mistake lead to the deaths of five...five people?
How can they be dead because of a file?
The same way Montgomery had died before?
You did this.
Because of an obsession, a moment in weakness against desperation.
You didn't even get anything out of it.
Now...well.
Your old team is dead. Bracken...is dead.
It's been a day. How can all of this change in a day?
Shit.
Lips barely parting, her breath escapes in trembles, the chill inside of her overwhelming every inch for the decision she needs to make. That's when he calls.
Sloppy to pick up the old flip phone Ryan lent to her earlier, she answers, a gulp combating the dryness balling up in her throat, warning of coming tears.
"Hey," she greets softly, forcing a smile into her tone. The word flows easily enough to ensure Castle can't discern her grief.
"Hey, heading home right now. How'd everything go?"
"Hyde's dead. Suicide."
"What? Seriously?"
"She had a family, turns out. Husband. Kids. Not worth it. If she stayed alive, she'd bring all of them to crash down with her."
No. No. Enough.
"We can talk more about it once I get home," he says. "Driving still. Went to grab some stuff for dinner. You back yet?"
"Yeah, I'm-I'm headed back right now. See you soon, babe."
"Okay–I love you."
"I love you too," she says quickly before ending the call. She tosses the phone onto the passenger seat, eyes leaving it before it can land. She'd throw it against the window, that is, if she didn't need it.
The taste of her words stir the protest in her heart.
You can't. You can't do this.
You love him.
He loves you.
Her grip rips off the wheel to hit it with the heel of her palm, the shift of her body hysterical in the motion. Tears line in her lids, the passing lights of the freeway revealing their sparkle, twinkling like the life of the city seemingly distant in her rearview mirror.
She exits, knowing she has to turn back.
If only just to turn around again.
Each tear bleeds out of her. This can't possibly be it. Her thoughts are yelling, but Rita, she comes in the clearest. Rita's voice haunts her to the point of discipline, an authority reminding her of her sins. And, ones she might further commit.
She has to atone for what she's committed already.
This is what she has to do. Or...
Hell, she isn't even sure of it.
But she goes home to figure it out.
–
Relief greets her when she meets the loft still empty, her body calm even for a few moments as she dashes off into their room. The hurried pace she had started out with slows as she steps through, the scene of the morning before all of this filling her sight as she strides towards her side of the bed.
This is where she woke up to the new day, where he started it loving her, proving it in the way they moved, their kisses in reverence for one another, sweetening the arrival of the sun spilling in and over the warmth already burning between them - a hissing, undying ember.
You can't. You can't...you...
You can't leave.
You can't...
No.
You can't lose this.
Anyone who knows dies.
Anyone.
The front door opening shakes her out of her reverie, startling the juggle of her options in her mind. For a second everything goes blank. As she hears the footsteps of her husband trudging through the loft, she's grounds back.
"Beckett," he calls out for her. The rustle of plastic bags partially drown out his voice.
"Yeah?" she calls back. More steps follow, the weight in each pressing sound so familiar to her, she could sing it. He appears at the doorway, his smile looking more charming than it's ever been.
It hurts worse than her throbbing wound.
"You just get in?"
Straightening her stance, she nods, a grin curving along her lips at the will to hide her pain. "Yeah I just–about to change my bandages."
"You want some help?" he asks stepping forward. Mirroring him, she replies with a head shake, gesturing towards the kitchen.
"You go get dinner started. I'll be out in a bit."
Her foot turns to begin towards the bathroom, but he reaches for her hand, pulling it towards him for a full embrace. His hold is secure, safe, and it allows her to crumble even just to breathe for this pause in time.
His lips press against her forehead, sliding down to her temple, her cheek, her jaw, and finally down the length of her neck, each press against her flesh sucking the strength out in the way he soothes her. It's a paradox; her mind is conflicted.
An act she knows she loves, lives off of, but begins to believe may be her last for now. It's sweet...but it lingers awfully bitter.
If you want this again,
You have to fix your fuck up.
You need to exorcise this demon.
You need to leave.
"Come on, Castle, your wife is hungry," she teases weakly. A deep breath helps her bravery. It also helps alleviate the need to cry.
"Okay-okay, I'm going," he says through a chuckle while releasing her. She's glad he doesn't look back. The departure of his skin carves an emptiness inside. It breaks her down to a fragility she's never known.
You can't.
You...
No, he's why you can.
Rummaging through the closet for her bag, she quietly begins to stuff it, grabbing all the clothes she needs. Halfway through, the melody of her husband's voice nearly stops her, looking towards the direction of the kitchen with such distress, such a loss of touch that she no longer feels the tears cascading down her face.
Bringing her wrist to her mouth, she silences the sobs, swallowing them whole. Every one pierces her chest, but it doesn't matter.
The pain is universal now, consuming all of her so much. It's all the same.
The last thing she packs is a picture, a candid photo taken by a local on one trip up to the Hamptons. It's a favorite, one she's had to explain to many. Together they're laughing, hands laced up like a game of mercy as they stand on the shore. It had come out blurred, but she's loved it dearly because of something her mother had said over and over again.
"Life is crazy, Katie. It takes you by the hand and pulls you in whatever direction you can go. It's fast. It's also blurry, fuzzy. So when you find someone to love, to anchor you down...hold on. Hold onto it, to keep you steady. Protect it."
And so the moment still lives with her, the essence of home and steadiness in every second she'd spent with him. The image is so alive in the way she recalls it - the stretch of her toes on tip to reach him, dazzled by the way the sun could ignite that ring of blue fire in his eyes.
The photo tight between her fingertips, she dwells in the spirit of that break in time.
And that's when it hits her.
How can I not wake up to those every day?
How can I not see them before I go to bed?
How can I actually walk away?
The answers come as readily as the questions, the responses all the overlap of the words everyone has said, fading into one another inside her head.
Only a few things filter through.
Dead.
Dead.
They're all dead.
If he knows, anything, he's dead.
The voices push her to fill up her bag, tucking the photo last before she zips it closed. Her fingers curl around the handles, but she hesitates to lift it right away. Steeling herself for what's to come, she yanks it off the bed before she pads through the living room, setting the bag down as her steps lead her to stand before him.
Unaware of how long this chance may last, she savors this opportunity to look on him in some semblance of joy. She cherishes the moment, unfocused even when he goes to speak, just appreciating him the way he stands in her sight. It's not until the change in his look when his eyes flick behind her that she's brought back to the moment.
His first words don't register.
"I'm sorry."
A/N: I went with this because I think it's important to see some kind of build up before Beckett leaves. I understand the importance of time, and probably the element of surprise that they were going for in the show, but I personally think it's important to know that it wasn't an easy decision. It was impulsive, influenced by a lot of factors, definitely stupid, and yet understandable to a certain degree. I tried to convey that here. Don't like it, that's fine. But don't come here to rant about the show. You'll be blocked otherwise, and guest reviews I'll just delete.
Thank you for reading either way.