MAELSTROM
CHAPTER ONE – TEAR DOWN THE WALL
A/N - First time Castle writer. Feedback welcome! Cheers. Thanks to the lovely 47alwayswriting for the thoughtful beta.
Disclaimer - I do not own Castle. Nor do I own Pink Floyd, or their lyrics. Don't sue me, I'm broke.
She's soaked to the skin, and feels like she's frozen to the bone. But the deep sadness that settled on her like a suffocating blanket when she stepped out the door on her wandering trek is chilling her more than the rain ever could.
It's hard to believe that she could ever be warm and dry again. In truth, part of her doesn't want to ever be. The rain is her self-flagellation. The walk from her apartment to that bookstore where he once angrily berated her for her summer-long silence, to the swings where they made amends, and now to his apartment building where she stands staring up at his dimly-lit window, with the monsoonal storm pelting down on her - it's all been part of her penance. But it's also supposed to be her therapy. She needed it, to scour her, to cleanse her.
She wanted the rain to drive away her remaining doubts. Make her forget the destructive urges that have eaten away the back of her mind for thirteen years. She wanted the downpour to wash away the last vestiges of anger at him, at herself, at the world. And while it is has succeeded, somewhat, it's also left her bereft. And now, while that ever self-destructive part of her welcomes the icy desolation, she knows she needs to be warm again.
She can only think of one place where that can happen. And only one person with whom it can happen. One obnoxious, egotistical, infuriating, but at the same time dear, caring, wonderful person she wants – needs – to be warm and dry with. The paradox that is Richard Castle.
Yet, there's a lingering voice persistently whispering to her that should still be livid with him.
Four years ago, he started this whole thing again. Even when she told him to leave it alone. Yes, he was remorseful and later urged her to leave it alone, and she knows now why he did it. But the self-righteous, vindictive part of her keeps up its quiet, yet hatefully incessant chatter.
It's all his fault anyway. Stop THINKING about him.
He was the one who opened up this can of worms and then bailed when it all got too tough. Guilty conscience, much? What a damned coward, cutting and running.
And he lied to you. LIED to you for almost a year. Hid this all from you. What the hell?
He doesn't deserve any more energy on...on THINKING about him, let alone going to him.
What the hell are you doing, here at his apartment? STOP THINKING ABOUT THE BASTARD.
The voice drones on quietly, incoherently and angrily in her skull. With the rain driving down hard on her head, it almost becomes a pleasant mantra. Until it becomes unbearable. Wrong.
With a vicious finality, she forces the voice away. Subdues it and pushes it into a locked box in her mind where she keeps all her shameful secrets, all the thoughts that should never, ever be given serious consideration. For even though there is some truth in the bitter diatribe, she knows in her heart that it doesn't matter anymore.
The past is the past.
The wall is almost down. She's sick – utterly sick – of that wall, and her wish to hide behind its tempting isolation. She wants out.
And she wants to be warm again.
As if in a daze, she steps out of the elevator that lands with a lurch and a ding! at his floor. Her trembling fingers unzip the front pocket of her jacket, the drenched leather squealing in protest as it stretches tautly. She pulls out her phone, and brings up his contact details. As it rings, she stares hopefully at his grinning, buffoonish face on the screen.
It rings out. It hasn't gone to voicemail. He ended the call. He really is done with her.
She stands there for a minute or two, staring at the phone. Water pools at her feet. The chill starts to bite, but it's not the only thing making her shake. The finality of his rejection seems too much to bear. It hits her, almost as hard as the bullet that struck her in the chest almost a year ago. It definitely hurts more.
Nothing else seems as devastating. Not Montgomery's betrayal and redemption, not the beating she took at the hands of Maddox, not being left for dead and hanging by her fingertips. Not knowing the truth about her mom's death, after having come so close.
None of those indignities, those tragedies – none of them seem to matter as much as Castle not answering her call.
It's almost too much. But not quite. She raises her head defiantly.
You didn't come all this way, in the rain...you didn't almost DIE to be put off by one unanswered call, she berates herself furiously.
She'll give this one more try. She'll say sorry. She'll beg. She'll scream. Because they both need this. They both deserve this.
As she wills her legs to move towards his door, she suddenly recalls an animated army of red hammers marching together to a martial beat. And even though it's anachronistic and weird, she hears the famous line ringing over and over in her head - "Tear down the wall! Tear down the wall!" in accompaniment to judgmental, swirling organ, abrasive guitar chords and the memory of a needle in the groove of an old, worn-out, much-loved vinyl record. It seems fitting that her mother's favorite album with its stirring climax should come to her now, as she desperately tries to destroy that stubborn wall.
If only she'd listened to that album more over the past few years. Or pulled out her old VHS of the movie adaptation and watched it. Maybe she would have taken its moral lessons to heart just a bit sooner. Recognised herself, even slightly, in the tormented figure of Pink the musician and his ultimately futile quest to barricade himself from anything that could ever hurt him.
Standing in front of that familiar door, it suddenly seems like an impenetrable barrier to happiness, a forbidding rampart closed to any and all, but especially her. She raises her hand tentatively, knuckles poised, and courage almost escapes her. She sees his broken, puffy face in her mind, remembers his defeated words - "This is, um...over. I'm done". And the finality of that quietly-closed door as she stood there stunned, hurt and livid. But mostly hurt. And now she chokes up, arm frozen in position, and her only movements are the shivers that wrack her body.
She almost breaks. Almost turns around and runs. Like she's done for the past four years.
But once more she hears that persistent ear-worm again. It's like her mom is shouting at her through the Floydian prose: "Tear down the wall! TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"
In her mind she snarls, reaches out and smashes her fist through those remaining bricks. Obliterates them into dust.
Who knew they could be so fragile, so pathetic, in the face of what she wanted, what she actually needed?
The light tapping on his heavy front door breaks the silence. A minute later it swings open, just as lightning flashes violently through his living room windows, illuminating his expectant, mildly-friendly greeting face. Which then drops at the sight of her. A frown mars his features. The mask goes up. His own wall, one that she helped build. She shudders inwardly at the shame of it, the hand she has had in the closing-off of this irrepressible man-child.
"Beckett, what do you want?"
The voice is flat and unwelcoming. At least if it were furious she'd feel better. But even in her fragile state, she can hear the ragged emotion behind his flat tone. And even though it's back to "Beckett", and not "Kate" - even though any affection or care is buried under deliberate layers of cold indifference, she knows. She knows because she's been that person. She's built her own walls. She can recognize this one a mile away. And she knows she can get through it.
"You."
In the end, this is all she has. One word. And herself.
As she lurches through his door to grab him and kiss away the wall, to break his resolve, to show him through actions, and as she feels his lips yield to hers and the shudder that runs through him as she molds herself to him, she knows that his wall, as strong and as high as he might have tried to build it in the past day, can be no match for this.
For them.
Staring into his blue eyes, dark with longing and lust and wonder, she smiles. She knows how he feels. His slack-jawed face betrays the maelstrom of emotions running through him; but she knows how to fix it.
She might not yet be able to voice the truth that she's known for so long – after all, that's another wall for another day – but she can show him.
As she tugs on his hand to gently lead him to his own bedroom, she feels a warmth enveloping her that she knows is not just the loft's central heating.
She is with the one person who can make her feel warm. And safe.
And outside, as the storm rages and intensifies, they create so much heat in his bed that it seems impossible that either of them could ever be cold again.
Mother, did it need to be so high?
Pink Floyd - "Mother"