FRACTUS

Set post 47 Seconds.

This story is completely written and edited. There are 12 chapters total. Will post every 3-4 days until complete. Entry for the 2015 Castle Summer Hiatus Ficathon.

Rated M for sexual content and mature themes. Trigger warning for severe angst and suicidal ideations (thoughts/plans).

Since it is complete, I can promise you that there is NO major (or minor) character death and there WILL be a Caskett happily ever after. It just may not seem like it's possible for most of the story.

I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!

And yet when thou art absent I am sad;

And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,

Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,

Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me:

And often in my solitude I sigh

That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,

I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)

Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone

Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,

With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,

Between me and the midnight heaven arise,

Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!

Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;

And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,

Because they see me gazing where thou art.

-Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton

Three weeks. Less than a month. It didn't seem like a long time, in the grand scheme of things, but to him it represented the pinnacle of his pretensions…and now the deepest despair. Three weeks. Plenty of time to encompass enough heartache to last a lifetime.

He was sitting in his office, glass of whiskey in one hand, half empty bottle his only company for the night. His mother was out…nothing unusual there…and Alexis was off doing something productive. Studying, or preparing to study. It didn't matter: his only child was predictable in her inherent drive to succeed.

He swirled the light amber liquid in his glass, idly observing the light refracting off the surface. The whiskey did little to quench the bubbling anger and anguish, but it did numb the pain slightly. Helped form a protective scar over his emotions. Something he badly needed.

Three weeks ago he'd been drinking as well, wanting to forget all about being patient and supportive. He'd overindulged, but at the time was too wound up to care.

They'd just closed the Odette/Fauxdette case. Had caught the family financial advisor, Lynchberg, in his web of lies. Afterwards, he'd been reflecting on the power of dreams in their life. Kate…Beckett…had asked him what he was doing as he'd been staring at a picture of Barbara.

"I was just thinking about how we rely on dreams to keep us going in life and how sad it is when they become the things that tear us down."

He'd had no idea at the time how prophetic his own words would be. Kat…Beckett…had told him about her dream of becoming a Supreme Court Justice, and he'd felt his heart beat a little faster as he'd watched her, lost in the memories of little Katie Beckett and the life she'd had before tragedy had darkened her door.

Later that night, he'd retreated to the refuge of the Old Haunt after his mother had revealed that she'd promised Oona Marconi that he'd read and critique her book. He'd been thinking about other people's dreams and how he'd been able to facilitate helping some of them achieve them.

His own dream—a life with the woman he loved—had appeared to be indefinitely stalled. She'd indirectly asked for time when she'd first reappeared in his life months ago. He'd assumed she was talking about the possibility of them on those swings when she'd told him she had to put her mother's case to rest so that she could have the kind of relationship that she wanted; that the wall had to come down first. He'd been willing to wait.

But that night at the Old Haunt, alone in his basement office, it had all seemed hopeless. When she'd mentioned her dreams that evening, it had been those of her childhood at the forefront of her mind. No hint about them, and he'd been left to wonder if she even felt anything for him as he'd wandered to the elevator in a daze.

If she'd asked him about his dreams, he might not have confessed the truth, wary of frightening her. But they were all that he had, for now. What kept him going in the dark of night when he was alone in his giant, lonely bed. Waiting for her to finally figure it all out.

But, she hadn't asked him. And she hadn't hesitated to share her story of Katie Beckett's dream of a career in law, culminating at the Supreme Court. To him, it was obvious that she wasn't spending much time thinking about their partnership. She was clearly content to leave it all as it was.

Which left him out in the cold.

So, he'd gotten drunk. He'd holed up in his little office that held nearly as many secrets as she did and he'd drunk away the uncertainty. He had a hazy memory of calling Ka…Beckett…at some point and having a disjointed conversation with her about the meaning of dreams and whether fulfilling them—especially the most precious of them—was a possibility. He couldn't remember what they'd concluded. He wasn't even sure she'd bothered to listen to the inebriated ramblings of a lovesick fool.

That's when he decided to indulge in his favorite fantasy: Kate Beckett coming to him. Wanting him. The dream had taken over, as he'd imagined Kate coming to the bar to finish their conversation. He'd imagined them together so many times, it was easy to slip the bounds of reality. That night had been especially life-like. He'd cracked a new bottle of a whiskey they were trialling for the bar. It was magnificent, and he made a mental note to save it for those nights when he required extra...inspiration.

It'd all been enough for him to almost...almost forget it was just a dream.

In this fantasy, he'd still been drinking when she'd descended the stairs to his office below the bar. He'd forced himself to wait half an hour until after the bar manager, Chris, had left. Trying to explain why the boss was moaning in his office was not something he wanted to do. Plus, it gave him time for a little more...lubrication.

She'd walked in—the door was partially ajar, and from his precarious perch on his chair she'd appeared both determined and scared at the same time. He'd surprised himself, as her emotional state in most of his fantasies was usually one of desperation-for him. Fear was not something he'd typically associate in an encounter like this. Her PTSD after the shooting had made her cower in fear during the sniper case, which was understandable. She'd fought back from it though, as they'd all known she would. But scared of him? It was unusual...but not completely out of bounds.

He'd dropped the glass back onto the desk, never finishing the familiar route to his mouth. The noise had made her jump and he'd almost slurred out an apology, but when she'd looked into his eyes the words just died in his mouth. She'd shrugged out of her coat, which had dropped to the ground without notice as she'd crossed the short expanse between the door and his desk.

He remembered marveling over how real it all felt as she'd wordlessly swiveled his chair so she could straddle his legs. She'd been wearing jeans and a t-shirt—another oddity, because in most of his fantasies she was wearing a sexy dress (or nothing but lingerie) when they got to this stage, but honestly he found her irresistible no matter what she was wearing.

He'd looked up at her, as her position mounted above him placed her head above his; her hair had cascaded down around his face, enveloping them in a bubble outside of time that was perhaps the most intimate moment he'd ever experienced in his life, fantasy or not.

She'd just looked at him, unspeaking. As with all his fantasies of her, he'd been able to read the desire in her eyes, but this version of Kate had a sweet vulnerability that he found breathtaking. He'd reached up with one hand to caress her cheek, moving her hair behind her ear on that side and she'd closed her eyes and turned into the caress. He'd then taken his other hand behind her head and slowly guided her down to his waiting lips.

Their kiss had been gentle, at first, as he'd marveled once more in how real it had all seemed. She'd felt warm; solid across his legs. The smell had even been right, with the faint whiff of cherries wafting past his nose. Deepening the kiss, he'd tasted deeply, finding a hint of vanilla.

She'd moaned at that moment, and suddenly everything had exploded like a powder keg. With their mouths still fused, they'd both begun grinding against the other, finding as many points of contact as possible. His hands had stolen under her shirt, and to his delight (well, it was his fantasy, after all) there'd been no bra in the way.

Her nipples were already hard, and the sounds she'd made when he pinched and rolled them between his fingers were indescribable. He'd taken the opportunity to move his lips to her neck, then sucked one mound into his warm mouth, t shirt and all. She'd gasped, then had moaned even louder.

"Cassttle."

It was all either of them had said, for her hands had somehow moved down to his zipper and had been working to free his straining erection. He'd sat straight up—the break in their contact had made her groan in protest—but he'd just lifted her up enough to pull her jeans down her legs. She'd gotten the message and had stepped out of them. To his amazement, she'd been going commando under them—another fantasy of his played out. She'd then sunk back down on him, mouth to mouth once more.

The slick heat of her core so near his was a siren he couldn't resist. Grasping her tight buttocks, he'd lifted her again, but this time had positioned her at his tip. She'd opened her eyes and looked into his as she slid down his shaft, and it was all he could do not to come on the first thrust. He'd never felt such a connection to anyone. She'd been so tight and hot, and her flushed skin and clenching muscles had shown that she was as turned on as he was.

He'd managed a few thrusts, the feel of her surrounding him driving him higher and higher with each stoke. He'd felt his balls tightening as pressure had built in his pelvis, and the oncoming orgasm almost frightened him in the intensity that was ready to burst free. Just as he'd reached his limit, he felt her clamp down around him and she'd screamed incoherently. One more thrust almost painful in its pleasure and he'd…

A loud report rifled through the air as a lance of pain shot through his hand. Looking down, he saw he'd clenched his hand so tightly while lost in the dream that he'd cracked the glass he'd held. He stared dumbly as a drop of blood slowly rolled down one finger, gathering mass at the junction of the joint until it had enough momentum to drip with a small plunk onto the desk. He didn't know if he should get up and attend to his finger first, or the raging erection that the memory of his fantasy had brought about.

He watched as the growing pool of red on his desk washed over his vision. It reflected the rage that built within as he considered what he'd learned about the true Beckett in the last few days. She was not the innocent angel of his fantasy life...not even close. More like a siren who tempted men in with her song, only to trap them forever. Well, no more. Not for him. His anger transformed him: an avenging angel, demanding divine retribution from the temptress who'd ensnared him. He could hear nothing beyond the blood whooshing through his ears, and the urge to destroy was suddenly so strong that he couldn't check it any longer. He hurled the glass at the wall with all his force, shattering the remainder just as his life had shattered around him.

It was inconceivable that he still let her have this power over him, especially after he'd learned the truth from behind the glass of the interrogation room. The very thought of her duplicity, her friendliness made his stomach roil. She'd not wanted anything more from him than his partnership, but she'd led him on this whole time.

He was such a fool.

The morning after he'd gotten drunk at the Old Haunt, those three weeks ago, he'd woken up with a horrific hangover and a deep determination to be more direct in his dealing with her. He was tired of just dreaming about her, and the incredible reality of his fantasy from that night had fueled his decision to make her see that they didn't have to wait. That they'd be better together, rather than bumbling alone in the dark.

He'd not seen her for a day, and when they had finally came face to face in the precinct, his traitorous mind had replayed the look she'd worn as he'd been thrusting into her imaginary body. His erection had been instantaneous, and it was all he could do to prevent his hands from latching onto her and never letting go.

He'd managed to excuse himself before anyone noticed his…problem… and had fled in embarrassment. A few days of self-imposed isolation, and more masturbation sessions than he'd indulged in since he was a teenager, and he'd felt as though he could be in the same room as her without making a fool of himself. It had been time to launch his plan to win her, for once and for all.

It was through pure providence that he'd stalled long enough for them to land another case. A case that had required all of their undivided attention as they raced to figure out who had set the bomb at Boylan Plaza, and if more bloodshed would erupt.

He'd never had a chance to pull her aside and tell her what she meant to him, even when he'd had a momentary opportunity when they were discussing the frailty of life. She'd said something about not wanting to put off things that she wanted anymore, and a bright flash of adrenaline had surged through his body as he took in her words, but then Espo had interrupted and the moment had been lost.

Thank God.

For just a few days later, his world had been destroyed. Blown up, not by a bomb, but by the flick of her tongue.

Staring at the splattered red on his desk, he saw it quiver as another drop splashed down. It looked as if it were twinkling at him, representative of the flame that he'd carried for her for so long. A flame of hope, love and desire.

She hadn't even known he was present when she'd confronted the suspect with an accusation about his memory. An accusation that the suspect had listened to in stony silence, but one that had eviscerated the man better known as Richard Castle. And his flame—their flame, that he'd carried so she didn't have to—had been doused by some meaningless words she'd thrown around in an interrogation.

Meaningless to her.

They'd meant everything to him.

"The hell you don't remember. Do you want to know trauma? I was shot in the chest and I remember every second of it."

Every second of it. Those four little words had extinguished in full all of his dreams. Six simple syllables that had sucked the very oxygen out of the air.

They were stronger than just water drenching him in cold reality. It felt as though she'd crafted them from acid before spewing them forth. They'd not been aimed at him; he'd been hidden behind the glass. But they'd burned past the wall into the observation room where he'd stood and burrowed through his chest, lodging in his heart where they continued to scorch and singe.

His flame of hope had been replaced by a seething swamp of despair.

Every second of it.

She remembered.

She knew.

His confession to her as she lay dying, pleading with her to stay with him.

She'd lied, all this time.

Every fucking second of it.

Thanks, as always, to Garrae for reading and pushing me to write, write, write.

Appreciate any thoughts/comments/questions.