This story is the result of what happens when you watch emotionally compromising episodes of other television shows at 2am. Don't watch emotionally compromising episodes of other television shows at 2am.
425,197 Minutes
She was back in New York 8 hours after. The singed dress lay crumpled in a heap on the bedroom floor, forgotten and dismissed. Three hours into the drive she'd realized just how selfish she'd been leaving so quickly, leaving a grieving mother and daughter to pack the remains of what had become a disaster. The happiest day of her life just became the worst. Jim was taking care of the clean-up, and reassured Kate that Martha and Alexis were headed back to the city as well.
The rain arrived as if on cue as the Hamptons Police car arrived in front of the 12th. The homicide floor was deserted on account of the late hour, but Ryan and Esposito were already handing her manila folders and sketching a rough timeline across the bottom half of the murder board as she exited the elevator. They had left directly after hearing about the accident, giving them enough time to change into jeans, but Kate's smeared make-up and oversized NYPD sweatshirt spoke volumes about what the evening had become.
Ryan is saying something about vehicle descriptions but she hears nothing. She can't. Not with the red "MISSING" underlining Castle's face staring back at her.
15 days after
Esposito told her to go home after she'd fallen asleep at her desk. Again.
"Get some rest, Kate". You look awful.
The precinct had become her home. The break room was her bedroom, the torn couch already molding to fit her shape. The locker room shower was warm enough and she'd been sending uniforms to her apartment for changes of clothes to avoid leaving the building for too long. The marble bathroom on the second provided familiar refuge when she'd needed to reapply her mascara and there was always a continuous supply of coffee.
But Esposito was right. The only food she'd eaten that wasn't out of a vending machine was out of a cardboard container and she hadn't seen felt the sun in weeks. Though sometimes she wondered if she'd ever truly feel the sun again.
Her apartment smelled like stale cardboard, the boxes arranged haphazardly around the living room as she looked around the rooms she hadn't called home in months. She was supposed to move in to the loft for good months ago, after she'd returned from DC, but had insisted on finishing the lease.
The thought of renewing was enough to send her running to the bathroom. Images of the loft without him flooded her mind as she emptied the pitiful contents of her stomach.
Her tears blend with the lukewarm shower water and she spends the night on the couch. The bed still smells like him.
21 days after
Ryan's call interrupted the early-morning darkness.
"Beckett. We got something."
Twenty minutes later Kate was striding through the precinct, her fiancé's ring bouncing gently atop her white blouse. She'd been wearing it visibly for weeks. Esposito handed her a fresh mug as Ryan explained that a man driving a black SUV with tinted windows had been arrested in Cold Spring Harbor last night after a bar fight.
"Hamptons PD are still holding him. Punched a bartender. Guy's got a history of assault and did a nickel in Riker's for possession a few years ago. We should have more news in a few hours but Beckett," Esposito explained, "He could be our guy."
"You need to get me there." The desperation in her voice came through unbidden.
Esposito caught her arm as she reached for the blazer draped across her chair. "You can't."
"I need to be there."
"There's another witness driving up. She'll be here in ten." Beckett's icy stare sent a chill down his spine as she wrestled free of his grip. "Says she remembers seeing the car just after it'd been run off the road. You in?"
Esposito did most of the talking during the interview. The woman was more interested in telling them about the traffic on her drive up and the Manhattan skyline than anything seemingly pertinent to the investigation. In the end they'd narrowed their timeline, but not much else.
Hours passed before a call from Detective Miles and the Hamptons PD reaches her desk phone.
Ryan watches as the hopefulness in her eyes turns somber and she hangs up the phone.
"He alibied out."
The words are no more than a whisper as she sinks further into her chair.
22 days after
The coffee tastes wrong. Like misplaced hope and bitter loneliness.
She vows against it until he's back.
She doesn't sleep anymore anyway.
64 days after
She noticed something was different the second she'd walked into the bullpen. The empty space beside her desk laughed at her as she stood frozen two steps away. They'd taken the chair. His chair.
Gates tried to explain that the night crew manager had taken it to the 33rd precinct in Washington Heights. Something about a shortage.
Bullshit.
Ryan and Esposito tried to replace it with one from an interview room downstairs but she noticed right away.
They'd taken his chair.
They'd taken him.
She doesn't bother re-applying the mascara when she leaves the bathroom.
101 days after
Kate woke early one morning in a cold sweat. Nightmares of flames licking at steel and carbon, the smell of burning gasoline filling her lungs as she gasped for air. She reached for him, only to be met with emptiness.
She's not sure which is worse, the nightmares or the cold sheets beside her.
Lightning broke through the darkness as she crossed the living room and opened the window on the far wall. The same frosted window she'd shut for good earlier that year with Castle. She removed the small gold lock holding it shut and turned on the lamp beside her. Small numbers serve as the only visible reminder of what once occupied the space. 1/9/99 - 5/5/14.
Castle had helped her neatly pack away the paper and photos into a shoe box the night of Bracken's arrest. He had watched as she carefully removed every failed lead, every deceased suspect, the photos of Raglan, McAllister, Montgomery, her mother. Silent and stoic, his presence holding her up as she closed the lock. He'd been the one to write the dates on it. No explanation, just the calm sweep of felt over metal.
Thunder echoes through the apartment as she tapes a picture of Castle in the center of the window and pulls out a pad of post-its from the drawer.
This time it won't take ten years.
192 days after
In the end it was Martha to convince Kate to collect her belongings from the loft. She hadn't been back since the incident. The women had met since, for tea, but more for the company than the conversation. It was enough for now, until the man who brought them together returns.
Until she finds him.
The locks had changed since she'd last been. Just in case, Martha explained. The older woman had lost much of her trademark vibrancy over the past few months. Her eyes were darker, her hair thinner. Even her clothes seemed duller than before. Kate had lost a love, but Martha had lost a son.
Watching her move was like reliving that cold January day in reverse.
"Darling, I know I invited you here for a meal, but I have to run," Martha told Kate as she reached for a more decorated coat. A winter blast had swept New York last weekend, covering the streets with an early dusting. The first hints of a very, very long winter.
Martha is halfway out the door by the time Kate starts listening. "You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like, there's a new key for you on Richard's desk, and Katherine," She lowered her voice slightly, familiarity replacing frenzy, "I'm glad you're here."
The door clicked quietly and Kate was suddenly alone in the too-large loft. Her first real breath caught her off guard. It smelled different, too feminine. The furniture is all the same, like nothing has changed. Like no one is missing. His coats still hung neatly in the closet near the door, a pair of dress shoes covered with a layer of dust are nestled beneath. Kate removed her shoes and placed her tattered sneakers next to his. She hadn't worn heels in weeks. They weren't worth the effort.
Not much was.
She roamed slowly around the interior, almost in a trance, and into his office. Immediately after opening the door she noticed the scent return, lingering in a room far less traveled than the rest. Dust caught in the light as she ran a finger along the spines of his novels. Nikki Heat stares back as she removes one from the shelf, the silhouette taunting her. A reminder of what she'd once been. Strong. Brave. Alive.
A few weeks after the incident she'd picked up Heat Wave, but couldn't open it. She hoped that the words could do what they'd been doing for years: give her strength, bring her peace. She was wrong.
They made everything worse.
In the bedroom she found her bathrobe hanging neatly on the back of the door. Like nothing had changed. Like he was two rooms away. She opened a drawer and pulled out a purple and red plaid shirt, one of her favorites, and brought it to her chest. Kate stepped around to the right side of the bed – his side – and slowly lowered herself into the pillow. Eyes open and mouth slack, she clung to what she had.
She leaves the next morning, feeling rested for the first time since the incident.
228 days after
She spent Christmas with Martha and Alexis in the scarcely decorated loft. No presents were exchanged, no toasts made, only wordless promises and a single shared wish.
Nothing is right without him.
239 days after
For the first time she told the cabbie his address. The January rain beat down on her as she approached the building, snow turning to slush that would shortly become ice. There was no motivation for Kate's visit, but after today she found herself needing him more than ever.
The new key turned easily in the lock as she entered, finding last month's decorations long since put away. A large package partially covered with cardboard obstructed most of the entryway.
Kate circled around the object. When she noticed the return shipping label, everything went cold. Her throat closed and her knees buckled as she traced the sides of the stone.
J.M. Gast Monuments.
She lifted the cardboard and knelt before the stone. Shaking hands traced the cold indentations on the front face. Her swollen eyes remained clear enough to read the lettering.
Richard Castle. April 1, 1969 – 2015. Beloved Father and Son.
It was simple and discrete, so unlike Castle. There's no mention of his given name or his status, only the 46 letters and numbers. An entire life reduced to 4 words. Not even a complete sentence.
There's no mention of husband. It's something he's been before yet will never be.
She wanted to swear, to cry, to curse the world for dooming her to an eternal title of fiancé. Almost married. Almost happy. Instead she tows the line between nobody and somebody.
Kate spends the night slumped beside the cold stone, tracks of tears staining her cheeks.
249 days after
She attended his funeral.
It was a small ceremony; just his family and his immediate family. The air was unreasonably warm for January, fallen snow muddying the unturned grass as her feet sunk lower.
Sixteen years ago this week she was standing in the same spot she is now, watching as her whole world was lowered into the frozen earth.
The worst kind of Deja-vu.
Martha's hand feathered across her shoulder. "I had to put him to rest," she admitted, "It's just been so long."
The older woman is heavy with the weight of defeat. It had been over 8 months. Kate knew better than anyone that after that long, hope was difficult to find nonetheless cling to.
But she also knew that sometimes justice and peace came long after hope was forgotten.
Castle taught her that.
"I'll find him."
She didn't turn, didn't waver. The words were strong, stoic and sure.
She can't afford for them to be anything else.
But when Martha's hand found hers she's brought back to the reality before her. The dark mahogany covered with white flowers and a man reciting some bullshit about peace in the afterlife and the love of her life not even inside the box meant for him. She wasn't even sure why they'd even gotten the coffin. She was standing there watching wood be covered with mud when Castle was out there. Somewhere.
Anywhere but here.
The fight left her as the empty box was lowered. Something within her snapped and crumbled just as easily as the dirt before her. The practical, realistic, rationalist Katherine Beckett abandoned hope and life, and she spoke the words she swore never to admit.
He's gone.
The evidence was overwhelming. They hadn't had a new detail in weeks. The winter had been harsh and unforgiving.
She had lost all strength to believe.
There's a horrific irony in the situation that she almost laughs at. Castle would have been the one to convince her to stop looking. He had seen what the obsession with her mother's case had brought her, but it had also been castle to bring her the closure she'd needed. Now his empty coffin brings grief and closure, and she can't decide which is worse.
She needs him. Needs him to tell her never to give up, to find him, but she needs him to tell her to stop. To continue without him. To find justice somewhere else.
She's so tired of fighting. There's nothing holding her up anymore.
He's gone.
And she's done.
254 days after
Gates refused to accept her letter of resignation. Instead she placed Kate on administrative leave of absence, three months paid leave. Standard operating procedure following the death of a spouse. She'd had to pull a few strings, but Kate hadn't seemed to mind. She'd lost everything already, she just wanted to leave on her own terms.
Besides, the precinct was as much his as hers now anyway.
She doesn't leave her bed for four days.
290 days later
Esposito arrived at the precinct to a message from a Sheriff Anderson at the Oneida Police Department saying that a John Doe matching a missing person's description had been found late last night off of Route 365 and was currently in critical condition at Crouse Hospital in Syracuse. The 6'2", 220 pound man had been found unconscious with evidence of dehydration and hypothermia, along with multiple bruises and lacerations covering much of his body.
Esposito immediately faxed the young officer Castle's blood work and fingerprint records and asked them to call the second they had the results.
It's late when her phone rings, and she almost doesn't answer when she sees "12th Precinct" flash across the screen. Esposito's voice sounds foreign in her ear, there's something different about it. Something she hasn't heard or felt in what feels like centuries. If she didn't know better she'd almost call it hope.
"Kate, he's alive."
291 days after
She made the 4 hour drive in 2. Cops don't ticket other cops.
The white walls are a stale reminder of the last time she'd found him in a hospital, clinging to life. She'd spent the entire drive up trying not to imagine what he'd look like, trying instead to focus on his heartbeat. Esposito was saying something about his condition and Kate, he's not in good shape, but all she heard was the steady pounding of the blood through his veins miles away from hers. Life.
She paused at the double doors before entering the emergency room. The stoic and valiant Detective Beckett had been reduced to nothing more than a frail shell over the last few months – the rest of what she once was holding on to life just meters away. Kate removed the ring from the chain around her neck and with trembling hands slowly slid the cold metal around her finger before stepping into the darkened halls.
"Visiting hours are over, dear," A nurse called to Kate, "You can't be here."
She removed her badge and approached the front desk of the small emergency room. "A man was brought here this morning, a John Doe. I'm a Detective with the NYPD investigating his disappearance." She didn't miss a beat, despite her shaking knees. "Please, I need to see him."
Perhaps it was the fidgeting with her ring, perhaps the badge alone was enough, but the woman sighed and directed Kate down the hall towards the ICU.
"Third door on the left. We're running diagnostic tests and should have an ID by morning."
The first thing she noticed in the room was the noise. The sounds of life. The steady beeping of the monitors, the slow wheeze of the respirator, the incessant hum of the fluorescent lighting echoed in her ears as the world seemed to slow to a stop.
He was almost unrecognizable under the tangle of wires and cords. Blankets covered his lower body and bruises the top. Green and purple evidence of the last nine months. His wrists were bandaged, but the thin layers of skin missing from around his neck are plain as day.
A scratchy beard covered his face and neck, his long hair a reminder of just how long she's been without him.
She wondered if he'd be upset she cut hers short.
He doesn't respond to her touch or voice but Kate was grateful for it. She's not sure if she can offer any sort of relief for him. The nightmares of her abduction still plague her, nearly a year later, and that was only after one day of uncertainty.
At least now they'll face the demons together.
She unfolded the chart at the base of his bed, skipping over much of the grisly details and searching for indications of what was next for him. The folder still listed him as a John Doe, but Kate already knew the truth. The doctors were keeping him sedated for a few days to keep the internal swelling down and to give them enough time to run additional testing to identify him, so Kate was going to have to wait it out. He'd been upgraded to serious condition after they'd started the saline IV and gotten him inside.
When she returns to the room there's a fresh cup of coffee in her hands.
295 days after
He woke to the scratch of nails across his scalp. The air was warm and clean, too clean, and Castle's eyes shoot open. There were tubes attached to his chest and around his face, his shoulder is in a sling and suddenly his chest burned with fear. He moved to bring a hand to his face but something stopped him.
He smelled coffee.
Kate's hand was already moving across his jaw to frame half his face as he melted into its warmth. The touch of metal cooled his cheek as his throat burned with words unspoken. A tear falls unbidden from his swollen eyes and Kate let out a quiet sob.
"Castle," she warns as she feels his jaw start to move. Heavy with months of silent prayers and loneliness, the words are no more than a whisper as they fill the small room. "Hey."
Longing, yearning, love, heartbreak and sorrow, all bundled into three simple syllables.
His eyes met hers and finally he felt safe. Her face was pale, her cheekbones higher – she hadn't been eating. The gorgeous curls he'd dreamt about for months now just a memory, replaced instead by a stunning jet black pixie cut. Her eyes were full of unshed tears and he wondered what the last few months had been like for her.
He'd take nine months of physical torture over one day of emotional any day.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the words are caught in his throat. Slender fingers twine around his hand and finally there's something real to hold on to.
"They thought you were dead," she whispers to him, just loud enough.
They? Not…
His wordless question hangs in the air before she answers with a gentle press of her lips over his knuckles. Never.
For the first time since the incident, they can both breathe.
Thank you all for reading.
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