It's a tricky thing, being in love. It blurs all the lines and tangles all the strings of those involved. It takes pride in tearing the lover's thoughts apart, and infiltrating them with thoughts of the other. It's scary. It's hard. It's inevitable. It's exactly what they had been feeling; Kate Beckett and Richard Castle. Richard Castle, and Kate Beckett. No matter how either of them had looked at it, it was love. It had been love. It always will be love.
But there are days when he wishes he could just forget it. Forget everything that they had because on those rare occasions when he can't stand the weight any longer, she fills his mind so completely that he can barely find room to breathe. Some days- days like today- her memory stops being something he cherishes, and becomes something he prays to forget. The love she gave him was unconditional. It was everlasting, and it will never leave him. It will always be there, looming in the shadows of his heart, of his mind, of his soul. This is what hurts him the most.
He wants more than anything to be able to give that love back to her, but he doesn't know how. The idea of her has become a foreign language- something he doesn't know how to approach. Every time he tries to speak to her or call out to her, he's lost for words. His tongue won't move, and his mind refuses to provide him with the words he needs to heal his heart. How ironic, he finds it- that the man who could find words to describe every single one of his desires for Kate Beckett and put them into a book, couldn't even manage a sentence in order to put back together what was so evidently broken- to tell her the truth.
His last thought before he goes to sleep is of her- Her hair, her smile, her eyes, and the heat of her hands on his. Everything that made their relationship so special replays in his mind and the painful regret that he keeps held inside his heart suddenly washes over him. Regret for all the things he didn't say, the things he didn't do, and the things he missed.
But, on the good days, his last thoughts are of the things he did say, the things he did do, and the things that made Kate Beckett, Kate Beckett. All the beautiful things about her tell a story of the good times, instead of the bad ones. Those are the moments he cherishes- the nights that are bearable.
x
At 12:30am he jumps awake- startled by something in his dreams, and he's suddenly much too aware of how much he misses her; how deeply he needs to see her- to feel her. He feels all the emotions he's had bottled up for the last two months bubbling to the surface, begging to be let out, and threatening to swallow him whole.
He gets out of bed and dresses himself as quickly as he can. He leaves a note on the kitchen counter for Alexis and Martha, and with that, he's out the door. The drive feels hours long, when it is actually only a few minutes away. It's late, so he finds a parking space relatively quickly, and after he parks, he makes a mad dash into the place he's grown to know so well.
The white walls of the hospital twist and turn as he tears down them. He doesn't even realize he's running until he's standing in front of her room with his hand ready to grab the door knob. But before he does, he revels in the simple thought that this is it- this is the moment before the moment- the calm before the storm. Or, more suitably, the final storm before the calm. Holding his breath, he slowly turns the doorknob, opening the door that ultimately leads to his entire world- her.
She's in the same position as every other day. Hands resting over her stomach, eyes closed, hair fanned out around her. If he didn't know better, he'd just think she was asleep. He approaches with caution, partially not wanting to disturb the silence and partially not wanting to have to face it. Before he sits down next to her, he gingerly brushes a stray curl away from her forehead as he greets his usual greeting.
"Hey, Kate."
The only response he gets is from the steady beeping of the machines beside him, telling him that her heart is still beating- promising that she is still in there somewhere. He passes his hands over his face in frustration. He's not sure why he's so disappointed- he knew she wouldn't respond. She never responds, and this was proven to him a multitude of times. Every single day over that past two months he's been in that exact chair, speaking the exact same words, and getting the exact same response- nothing.
He takes her hand in both of his, rubbing circles with his thumbs, trying to sooth her; trying to awaken something in her. Nothing happens. Her eyes stay closed. Her hand stays limp. His heart continues to break.
"Kate," it comes out as a whisper. "I need you to wake up, for me, okay?"
It's the most vulnerable he's ever felt- the most transparent and damaged he's ever been in his whole life, and that realization awakens his soul to the fact of how much she means to him, and how close he is to losing her.
"You need to wake up, because we still have things to do. We're not finished yet, you and me."
Now he's blaming himself. He thinks about all those times she'd come to his rescue, and the one time she really needed him, he wasn't there. He thinks that maybe if he'd kept his phone on, maybe if he'd stayed at the precinct for an extra half an hour, maybe if he hadn't been so caught up in his own business he would have been there with her and he could have warned her that there was someone following them- he could have taken that bullet for her.
But he wasn't.
He didn't.
It's his entire fault.
"I'm sorry" he whispers. Tears sting his eyes as his heart throbs against his chest, and he knows what he needs to say next. He owes it to her to tell her. It's the least he can do.
"There's something I need to tell you" he takes a deep breath.
"Laine told me what you said. She told me that you said you loved me."
The first of his tears begin to fall; a visual aid to the pain he's feeling.
"And I'm sorry that I never told you that I loved you too."
There it is.
"I still love you, Kate... It's always been you. It'll always be you."
He loves her… He really loves her. Not just emotionally but physically. He feels his love for her in the tips of his fingers, and the pads of his feet. The very sight of her sends shivers down his spine and sets his body temperature on high. In everything he does he feels her, and in everything he see's he's reminded of her. Within the last few yeas his world has changed to incorporate Kate Beckett into ever fold, every corner of it. He loves her, plain and simple; and he knows that it's real because all he can come up with to describe the feelings that are inside of him are those three words.
"I love you."
Just a short little Oneshot. Kind of depressing. Kind of sad. But I sat down and opened up Word and this is what came out.
Enjoy!
Love&Blessings
O