Author's Note: I have been absent from the fanfic world for almost twelve years. But, the adventures of Castle and Beckett brought me in from the storm. Good to see you all again.
I have no idea where this one came from; especially since I have not written anything non-work-related in years. So, bear with me. I have devoured all of the post- "47 Seconds" fic I can find, and, sadly, mine refused to allow "The Event" to be fixed.
If you like, I can always take a whack at Beckett's thoughts if anyone out there wants to see what the muses have in store for me.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. And, I am broke. So, sue me if you dare. You'll get nothing but lint and dog-eared books.
…
He watched the raindrops slowly slide down the window, his breath gently fogging the glass. In. Out. Keep breathing, he reminded himself.
He had to do that often, he recalled. In. Out.
Below him, the city continued to move, albeit in fits and starts. He saw the ants of humanity moving quickly, from doorway to doorway, from the warmth of a lobby to the chill of a waiting cab. The mist rose from the streets, making everything fuzzy.
He rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. The heavy rocks glass felt sweaty in his hand. He barely noticed that he was clenching it until his fingernails turned white.
The lights were low, and no sunlight cut through the clouds above him. He saw shadows in his office, and behind each and every one of them, a doubt lurked. He closed his eyes, wanting to lose the memories of the day.
He couldn't. In. Out.
His chest felt tight, his head filled with cotton, and, were he to speak, his voice would have been caked with rust.
What a day.
He turned to his desk, saw the laptop waiting for him. The cursor was blinking slowly, much like a heartbeat. It was the one constant in his life, the one thing that never failed to answer him.
Writing was his one true gift. His way with words. His ability to transport his readers to a world where good triumphs over evil, the wrongs of the world are righted, and the good guy always gets the girl.
The girl. In. Out.
It always came down to the girl.
Didn't it always?
He snorted, moved to the desk, sat down in his chair, and leaned back. He shifted the laptop to his thighs and started to type.
He willed himself to breathe. He never had to remind himself when he was writing.
He quickly reread what he had written and immediately deleted it. In. Out.
He tried again. The words seemed to mock him. They came sporadically, as if he was unsure of what they were trying to uncover for him. He tried to type smoothly, but he was struck by long pauses after each completed phrase. He felt his breath for the first time since he started to write in that booth all those years ago.
In. Out. In. Out.
He let out a long hiss and dropped his feet to the floor. He closed the document without saving it to his hard drive. It was drivel, anyway. This, his one escape, the one place where he could always purge the emotion, longing, and want, was no longer his alone. It would forever, inextricably, be linked with one person.
Yet, he was not sure he could bear to see her again.
In. Out.
And, without his words, what was he?
…
He jerked awake, the last tendrils of the dream leaving him, melting back into the shadows of the room. He could have sworn he saw her in the corner of the room, lounging in his chair with a book on her lap, reading what he had tried to write, with her brow furrowed and her lips pursed in disapproval.
He blinked, and she was gone.
Just like today.
He was not a brooder by nature. Yet, he could lock himself in his office for days with nothing but a legal pad, coffee cup, and fresh set of pencils; and at the end of his self-imposed exile, his prose would emerge, polished, taut, and hungry. But now, the only thing he wanted was to escape. Escape the life he had made for himself, the routines, the assurances that familiarity gave him.
He picked up his jacket and keys and headed out the door.
He began to walk, not knowing where he was going. The air smelled musty, as if the rain had cleaned away most of the grime and dust but hadn't quite finished its job. His head began to clear, the cobwebs slowly fading from his brain.
He walked for over an hour, passing by small shops, food stands, hole-in-the-wall eateries. Normally, he would have stopped in or window-shopped; but now, he found himself cut off from his natural curiosity. He absent-mindedly watched people through the windows, unable to hear their words. Had this been any other day, he would have supplied the dialogue automatically in his head. The accents, the inflections, the tones of their words would have been imprinted on his mind, all catalogued and stored away for future use.
But this had been no ordinary day. He had heard everything.
He was alone. Without his abilities. Without his identity. He shoved his hands down into his pockets, lowered his head, and became fascinated with the tips of his shoes making small strides along the pavement. He barely noticed the other shoes that quickly flitted into his field of vision and back out again, making no lasting impression on his mind.
He walked for another hour. When he finally looked up, hands tightly clenched within his pockets, the sun was going down, and he had no idea what street he was on. He flinched, seeing a wisp of curled brown hair whip around a corner. He mentally berated himself.
It wasn't her.
He kept walking, feeling the cold start to seep into his muscles, making his legs ache. Finding himself far from the beaten path of his routine, he still couldn't make himself worry about that particular fact.
Shadows emerged as the sun began its descent behind the buildings and the streetlights flicked on, feeble in their initial appearance. His breath came sharply as the shadows lengthened.
No.
Not here.
Even as he was lost in his wanderings, his doubts were here. They followed him, undulating beneath every surface he viewed. He closed his eyes, willing them to just go away.
He saw them in the darkness. They were growing, multiplying, changing. His head started to pound. His eyes snapped open.
Fine. He looked around himself, found the way to the nearest intersection, and luckily found a cab. He slowly eased his way onto the seat, gave the driver his address, and settled back into the seat.
His hands were still in his pockets, still clenched tightly.
…
For once, he was glad they weren't home. He could not cope with the idea of pretending that everything was okay. Just another day at the office. No, not a troubling day, just very tired, is all. I really do need to get some writing done…I may stay home tomorrow and knock out a few chapters. No, no, nothing's wrong. Just deadlines.
He smiled bitterly. For once, no masks. No lines to recite. No roles to play.
Just him, his books, and his thoughts. For what little good they did him today.
He did not know what tomorrow would bring. He did not know what he would do to pass the time. He did not know what he would do to try to forget.
He did not know what he could do…without her.
…
A/N: Angsty, I know. But, after that episode, I think it could've been a lot worse.