Episode insert for 7x01, "Driven".
Stricken
It was Martha who ushered him inside, who opened her arms to him for a lengthy hug, a quietly spoken "Jim" her only words of greeting. He allowed himself to be folded into her arms, hugging the woman back with a strength he thought she might need. A shared embrace filled with mutual heartache and unspoken concern for both of their children, one parent to another. Wordless in its compassion because grief needed no words; he'd long come to find them hollow and empty.
The loft seemed as always, unchanged, the fireplace lit and flickering despite it being June, as if they'd staged it to look exactly as when Rick had seen it last.
It seemed disturbingly quiet.
"She's in the office." Martha pointed him toward the wall of bookshelves and he nodded, shifted toward the closed door. Yet after a couple of steps he turned once more, faced the usually so exuberant woman who now stood motionless, pale against the shock of her red hair, weighted down by the demons of her new reality.
"Thank you, Martha." He was well aware of the strong presence that Martha had become in his only child's life, grateful for the bond that had grown between the two women, for Martha's willingness to at least patch up as best as she could the gaping void in Kate's life that couldn't be filled.
Martha nodded and Jim found himself relieved to see a strength reflected in her eyes that had taken him years and many mistakes to gain.
Her grief was staggering; an anguished, palpable force that nearly knocked him over when he stepped into the office, brutally contained within her lithe form, threatening to crack her open, tear her apart.
"Katie." She'd known he'd be visiting and yet she still startled at his voice, a few sheets of paper sliding from her hands and drifting to the floor like leaves on a fall day. She scrambled to pick them up, carefully aligning the edges of one of the piles on the desk as she added them to the top of the stack before she looked up at him.
"Hey Dad." Her hair was shorter now, hung in limp curls that framed her face, emphasizing the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the dark hollows underneath her wide eyes. She looked gaunt, and his heart ached.
"How are you?" He cringed at the empty, meaningless phrase. What could she possibly answer? Her fiancé was missing, perhaps even dead, she had no leads, nowhere to go and she was falling, hard and fast down that rabbit hole she'd only barely escaped once before.
Her answer was predictable. "Fine," she scraped out, her voice grated. A lie.
His eyes traveled across the desk, took note of the stacks upon stacks of papers; a couple of drawers remained opened to reveal more as Kate seemed to systematically work her way through every document Castle's office held, hunting for clues, any kind of hint that'd move her forward.
He wondered how many times she'd worked through those same piles before.
"You're not fine."
"Don't start with me," she blocked, reaching for a new stack of papers, hiding behind the curtain of her hair as it fell out from behind her ear. He knew he'd be fighting an uphill battle, knew the way she hid - from her pain, from the world, the people she loved.
It used to be so easy, when he could slide the tangled strands of her hair behind her ear, wipe the tears off her cheeks. When he could kiss the skimmed knee, put a Mickey Mouse bandaid over the wound, make her world whole again. Watch her smile at him with the unwavering trust only children seem to possess. The truth was that it'd been a long, long time since he had felt like he could reach her. Before, he'd come to the only person he thought could help - he'd come to Rick Castle.
"I'm worried you're losing yourself."
Her eyes flared, anger alighting the flames of gold that speckled her pupils as she whirled at him. "Like you have room to talk!"
It hit hard but he'd been steeled against it; he hadn't come here to fight or alienate her, couldn't refute the truth of it either. He knew he'd been less than stellar as a parent for far too long but this time he would be her strength, this time he would be there.
So he stood quietly, waited her out. It hurt, having to see her struggle, hurt even more to be so helpless when all he wanted was to take this anguish, this fear and gnawing uncertainty from his daughter.
There was no band-aid large enough to heal this wound.
And she deflated before him, her hands sinking listlessly to her sides as her eyes rose to look at him, full of despair.
"I'm sorry, I…" She whispered, almost tonelessly, "I didn't mean that. I... I..." She faltered and he strode forward, caught her in his arms as the first tear skated down her cheek.
Jim cradled her like he did when she was still a little girl, one hand curved to the back of her head and his other arm banded around her back, bundling her close and safe against his chest as she broke. She keened, anguished and forlorn, her face pressed against his neck where he could feel the wet sheen of her tears.
He wondered if she had allowed herself to cry before.
She clung to him, her fingers clawed into his shirt and he let her cry it out, murmured comforting words of empty nothingness, shhh, and I'm here, and It'll be okay.
Even though he knew. He knew.
If Rick Castle did not return, his daughter would never be okay again.
Written for the prompt: a scene where Jim Beckett checks up on Kate during the two months Castle is missing.