I was going to write this on 9/11, I really was. But then I got caught up with other stuff, like my family dragging my friend and I to a Renaissance Fair, super fun. But anyway, I wrote this a couple days ago and just got around to posting it. I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I found out what happened, and I was only in 1st grade. I'll never forget. America will never forget.
She was breezing through her paperwork this morning, each form flying by at a speed she hadn't encountered in quite some time. It was a slow day, no new cases for her to immerse herself in. Strangely, something felt off. She couldn't put her finger on it but something was not right in the precinct. Then the silence hit her, almost mocking her. Castle wasn't here. Looking up at the clock the harsh, red numbers read 10:00; he was always here by now. Every day at 8:30 he waltzed into the bullpen, loudly might she add; his presence accompanied by the heavenly scent of fresh coffee. Without thinking she flipped open her phone, pressed speed dial three and waited for him to answer. After realizing what she was doing she hung up, pressing the phone down hard on the wood desk. She didn't want to seem needy, or even like she wanted him here. She could handle cases, if she had any, on her own. She didn't need the annoying writer here to help her, or even entertain her. With this new mindset she set back to doing her paperwork but after a ten minutes her theory flew out the door when she was once again waiting for him to pick up.
"Hello?" Not his normal greeting.
"Hey, Castle, you coming in today?" She tried to make it sound like she didn't care, like she didn't actually want him to walk through those elevator doors and grin at her. But she failed miserably.
"No, I'm uh…not." And there it was, his voice was shaky. Something was definitely wrong with him, and she was too concerned to even think about being disappointed by his answer.
"Castle," her tone had softened considerably, "what's wrong?"
"Nothing." He replied all too quickly.
"Seriously, Castle? You do realize I interrogate killers daily, I think I can crack you of all people." She hoped a little teasing would lighten the mood; get him to open up. It didn't.
"Kate…just leave it." Now she was sure there was something terribly wrong, he never used her first name and he never did this. He wasn't like her; he didn't shut down.
"Rick." She stood firm, unmoving.
"Kate, please." He was almost pleading now; her heart fell into her stomach at the noise.
"I'm coming over." She didn't wait for a response, knowing he would not support her decision. Instead, she just hung up and stood up from her chair.
"Hey," she turned her head towards the boys, "I'm taking my lunch break, I'll be back in like thirty minutes." Immediately, Ryan and Esposito's faces turned into ones of both amusement and confusion, coupled with a bit of curiosity.
"Little early for lunch, huh Beckett?" Ryan smirked in her direction.
"I didn't have breakfast." She grabbed her jacket and almost ran for the door, concern completely overtaking her.
"But you never have breakfast!" She heard Ryan yell it as the elevator doors closed.
Standing in front of his door, arm poised in a knocking position she began to second-guess herself. It wasn't like she was invited here, what if he didn't let her in? No, Castle always let her in, no matter what. But did she want to go in? Did she want to find out what was bothering him? Of course she was curious but she didn't know where this would lead. Coming here, racing out of the precinct and to his door just because he sounded funny on the phone irrefutably proved that she cared, a lot. It wasn't as if that was in any way a lie but did she want him to know just how much he meant to her? No, she didn't really want that but Castle was too important to ignore. He was obviously hurting, and as much as it pained her to admit, she hurt just a little bit whenever he did. She had to find out what was wrong, for his sake, in case he needed her. And oh, how she wanted him to need her, to want her, to crave her. But she had to push those feelings aside for now, maybe even forever, because they weren't welcome. He didn't feel any of those things toward her and she'd accepted that, or that's what she was on the road to doing. They were colleagues, friends with a complicated relationship, nothing more. Taking a deep breath to still the thoughts racing through her mind she tilted her hand forward, knocking a few times before lowering her arm and waiting.
She didn't have to wait long; he had been expecting her. About a minute after she knocked the door was tentatively opened, she saw him peeking out from behind the wooden barrier as if she was going to hurt him. She felt her stomach clench, a new knot forming right next to the one her anxiousness had caused. Not waiting for him to greet her, or even allow her entrance, she pushed past him and into the empty loft. Turning back to face the door when she heard the soft click that told her it was closed she saw him walking away, at first she thought he was walking away from her, away from this conversation, when she realized he was only retreating back to his study, the place he was most comfortable, expecting her to follow. And so she did, following him into his study silently she shut the door as he sat in his chair, crossing the room she sat on his desk. They stayed like that for quite some time; she theorized that when and if he wanted to talk he would.
"It's September 11th." Three little words and yet the small sentence conveyed so much, all the pain he was obviously feeling given a cause.
"Who did you lose?" Her tone was soft, so soft she didn't know if he had heard her.
"Emily, Emily Stonebrook." He choked slightly on her name, she recognized that name from somewhere, it was all too familiar, "She had been my friend since college, she was a reporter, and a good one at that. She had been reporting on a story for a while and was coming home; she wasn't even supposed to be on that plane. She switched her flight at the last minute because she wanted to get home to her husband. We were all going to have dinner, needless to say that never happened. I was standing in a Borders when it happened, purchasing a copy of my latest book to give to her as a welcome home present, I was going to write a nice note to her. I was on my way to her apartment when her husband, Andy, called me and told me, he was crying. I'd never heard him cry before. But he hadn't heard me cry before either, now neither of us can say that." Tears started falling from his eyes and she put a hand on his forearm in an attempt at comfort.
She felt her heart being torn out, ripped into tiny pieces and thrown into the Hudson to drown. Even though she dealt with death everyday, dealing with the selfish and monstrous actions of fellow human beings. Even though she was an experienced cop, hardened beyond belief, she still found tears escaping her eyes.
"Believe me when I say I know that this doesn't help but," she soothed, "I'm so sorry." He put a hand over the one on his arm, grasping it tightly as if it were the only thing keeping him afloat.
"I have a folder on my computer titled Emily. Each year, on September 11th, I stay home all day and write. I write at least one memory I had with her, whether it be good or bad. I'm not really sure why I do it, but I think she deserves it. She was always so supportive of my writing; my first book was dedicated to her." That's where she had heard the name before, the dedication of his first novel, "She deserves to be commemorated, remembered in some way. This is my way of remembering, remembering everything. I'm doing it through something I love and something that she thought was special; she loved to read and would have loved these stories. She wasn't particularly sappy, but she would have liked them."
"I'm sure she would have, she sounds like a very special woman who didn't deserve to be taken so soon." She knew how this felt, to have someone ripped away from you so suddenly, but she had no idea what to say to him. When dealing with the families of murder victims she just said to them what she wished had been said to her, but now she was drawing a blank. For the life of her she couldn't remember what she had wanted to hear, she only knew she had to help him some how. So, instead of words she resorted to actions. Standing from the desk, sitting on the arm of his chair and hugging him tightly. He responded almost immediately, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his lap, sobbing into her hair. After a few moments tears stopped falling from her eyes, and after much longer his eyes were dry as well.
"I think you would have liked her." She saw a small, meek smile grace his lips, the first one she had seen from him all day.
"Oh?" Her face was nuzzled into his neck so she opted for the simple one syllable reply.
"Yeah, you would have gotten along, if only you two could meet. She was sweetest person I have ever met but very to the point, as a lot of reporters are, she was tough and trust me, if she were still around she'd give you a run for your money in the teasing Castle department. Actually, maybe it's best you didn't meet, I'd be way over my head." She chuckled, so did he. The first real sign that he was still him, still just Castle.
"Will you read me one of the stories you wrote about her?" She didn't know if this was pushing too far, asking too much. But that's what their relationship was about, pushing and pushing until you found the other's limits, or your own. Sometimes limits were completely disregarded, pushing far past those points.
"Yeah, sure." He unwrapped one arm from her body, the other still firmly in place holding her close, and he scrolled through the eight documents, one for each year and another one was to be added soon. He carefully selected one and began to read, calmly and soothingly.
They continued this ritual for the rest of the day, never moving from their position. Her phone rang multiple times, each annoying outburst a sign that either Ryan or Esposito were alerting her that her lunch break was over hours ago. But she didn't care, not with Castle's voice lifting her in and out of reality. He read her each story, stopping in between to talk about that fateful day nine years ago that had affected both of their lives so terribly. Her hands rested on the back of his neck, playing with the short, brown hairs while his were on the small of her back, one arm lifting every time a story was done to find another and return to its position. She held him tightly while he held her body impossibly close, each looking for comfort and to comfort the other. When each story was shared he wrote his newest addition to the collection while she watched from his lap, memorizing the contour of his face and the rhythm at which he typed. The light shining in through the windows slowly turned to darkness, the city's lights twinkling through the glass. After he had stopped writing both had sat in silence, thinking, remembering. Remembering the day, what they had been doing, who they had lost, how they heard, every sight and smell from the moments that they remembered as their world, literally, crashing down. She heard him snoring first before his light sounds lulled her into a peaceful sleep, still nestled into his body while he folded his protectively around her. They would each remember, it was something they shared. A connection they would always have with the rest of Americans that had been old enough, a bond that could never be broken. The small classroom of 1st graders that hadn't been allowed outside for recess, the accountant whose sister worked in one of the towers, a elderly couple that had been enjoying their wedding anniversary, even the powerful CEO that had broken down in tears when he learned that his wife was dead. Neither of them knew most of these people, some they had seen on the streets, some were friends or colleagues, others they had no idea existed. But each person, each human being that witnessed or heard about that historical moment, will remember it. They'll remember the sadness they felt from what they lost, the anger directed towards those responsible, and the pride that had swelled in their bodies at how their nation was sticking together, sticking up for it's own. And still, nine years later their nation was still sticking together, remembering together.
Review? Please?