LIVE
Disclaimer: Castle and its characters belong to Andrew Marlowe and ABC. No monetary gain is made from this endeavor. I don't own anything. If I did, I would want Kate Beckett's amazing coat collection!
Set in early season 4.
o o o o o o
She is sad all the time. She can't shake it. She thinks it's from the dreams but it permeates her days just the same.
She goes to bed at night; she has no trouble falling asleep. But she wakes up again, over and over, upset, drained. Sometimes she's still sobbing. Cobwebs of dreams still lingering, covering her eyes, clouding her mind. She doesn't remember whole dreams, usually, only bits and pieces.
She gets up in the morning and goes about her day. She expects it of herself. The victims still deserve justice, and she clings to that purpose. She functions well. The work, the day, it distracts her. His jokes, his laughter, his light flirting distract her. Helps shoo the lingering images to the back of her mind. But the sadness, it's always there. Lingering. The hollows under her eyes get darker.
They are not nightmares, exactly. She sees scenes like they are movies, unrelated to her life and yet she feels the emotions like her own. Intense, heartbreaking. Children crying. Couples fighting, hurting each other. Break-ups and heartbreaks and losses. She dreams of goodbyes. Of moving, leaving everybody behind, of wanting to move on but then she cries so hard that it still weighs down her chest when she wakes up. Sobbing, gasping for breath.
She is surprised, really. She expected bad dreams. After all, she did get shot at, almost died, with the shooter on the loose, the danger still out there, lurking, lying in wait for her. But she didn't expect this, can't make sense of it.
She is aware.
Aware that he is watching her. That he notices the dark smudges under her eyes, how she needs more coffee, that she skips meals and how she loses weight. She knows that he worries about her. Feels his eyes on her, intense and searching, worry etched into his features. He has always stared at her, but this. It's different. They go about their day, he spins theory and she dismisses it, he smiles at her and jokes with her and sometimes, he flirts. But it's different, she can feel it. He is keeping his distance. Distance she asked for. And when he thinks she doesn't notice, he watches her.
It feels different but she doesn't know why. No, that's a lie. She knows why, but she believes she made the right decision, the reasonable decision. But it muffles her like a heavy blanket. Her spirit a little heavier, a little sadder, every day. She misses him.
She doesn't know how to fix it. How to lift the sadness. Can't make sense of it. Until one night, she can.
Because this. It feels like a loss. Bereavement. She is grieving.
And it has nothing to do with her mother.
o o o o o o
It's late but she knows she has to do it. It's time. She summons her courage and knocks on his door.
She registers surprise when he finds her at the door, but only for a moment. Then his features relax, cautiously schooled. Neutral. He is so careful with her now, trying not to scare her away. Wary, even. She wants to fix that, too.
"Did we miss it?"
She stumbles, this isn't how she meant to start this conversation. Rethinks.
"I mean… Our chance. Did we miss it?"
"What?" He can't hide his surprise now.
She sighs, bites her lip. Crams her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "Can… can I come in?"
He comes out of his daze. "Sure…" He opens the door wider, steps to the side.
She comes inside, lingers in the entry, unsure. "Where is everybody?"
"In bed," he answers, and she remembers that it is late.
She is relieved. She's not sure she would've been up for small talk. She has to do this.
"Oh…" She looks at him. Pajama pants, t-shirt. "Did I wake you?"
"No," he shakes his head. "I was writing."
"Oh." Wordy, she is not. She wishes she could use words like he does. Where is her confidence when she needs it most?
But he rescues her now, too. "Would you like something to drink?" He heads toward the kitchen, and she knows, his mind is in overdrive, wondering, anxious, and he needs to occupy his hands.
She toes off her shoes, follows him. "Sure." She sits down on one of the bar stools and watches him. The way he moves about his kitchen, reaches up for glasses, and the arms of his shirt ride up and his muscles bunch. Ice clinks and he pours a generous amount of gin in both glasses. She realizes again how well he knows her, how he can gauge her mood and know what she needs. It's comforting and scary at the same time.
He hands her the drink, sits down on the bar stool next to her. She grabs her drink but she doesn't take a sip. Instead she watches the little beads of condensation slide down the side of the glass. While he watches her.
He reaches out, touches her arm. "Kate." And his voice is so soft, running through her like hot Brandy, heating her from the inside. She turns, her eyes meet his. Her knee bumps against his thigh but she doesn't move it away.
"I saw her, Castle," she begins, takes a deep breath. "My mom. When I was unconscious in the hospital, I saw her." He adjusts, clasps her hand in his at her words, and she squeezes it, holding on.
"I didn't tell anybody. It's such a cliché." Not even her shrink. Who would believe her? But she knows that he will. She stares into space, recalls the vision.
"She looked just like I remembered, except brighter. Larger than life, somehow. And it was warm and so comfortable and for a moment it was the only place I wanted to be, with her." He grips her hand, really tightly, and it's a bit uncomfortable but she doesn't say anything because she knows that he realizes how close she was to just letting go.
"But then she spoke, and all she said was, 'Live, Katie. Go live, go live, go live.' Over and over, until she just faded and I came back and I lived." It sounds strange even to her own ears but this is Castle and she trusts him.
"She sent you back. It wasn't your time." She nods, looks at him.
"But then," she continues, her voice a little wobbly but she forges on. "For a while now, I've been weighed down by this sadness, and I can't shake it. Like I lost something."
"You were grieving," he says. "Like you lost her twice?"
She shakes her head. He's close and yet not at all. "Searching for my mom's killer… I've been doing it so long, it formed me. I am who I am because of it." He nods. Watches her, waiting for her to continue. She tries to order her thoughts.
"So if, when, I find who did this, I think… it won't change who I am. Won't change anything." She squeezes his hands, straightens her spine.
"But I gave it power, Castle. And I lost something because of it. Something important."
"What?"
"You. I lost you."
"Oh Kate!" He tugs her closer. Sighs. "You haven't lost me Kate. I'm still here." He strokes her cheek. "I will wait for you."
It's earnest and she knows he means it and it's oh so big! That she can barely breathe.
"What if I don't want you to?" She whispers. His face falls, abject misery. No, Castle…!
"No, I mean…" She inches closer toward him, tentative. This is it. "Castle… What if I don't want for us to wait any longer?" She scoots off the bar stool, stands between his legs. Puts her hands to each side of his face and he looks at her, and she is amazed how his eyes show the pains of an adult but also the wonders of a young boy.
"I haven't done what she asked me to," she implores, hoping he understands. "I'm alive but I've been miserable. I haven't been living!" She strokes his cheeks, his forehead. Feels his skin. Runs her fingers over his ears, and through his hair. He wraps his arms around her waist and he just lets her. Watches her. She wants him closer and she wants to feel her heart racing like it does now, alive in her chest and she wants… This. This living.
And so she kisses him. Puts her lips against his, softly tastes his skin, feels the shape of his lips.
"Rick," she whispers against his lips. His grip tightens around her waist, and he's staring at her lips. It's heat and it's intense and she is ready for it. For him.
"I want to live… With you."
FIN