Gray of Dawn, Glow of Light
January 9th, 2013
She woke to the hazy gray of dawn, the silver slivers of light that snuck through the closed blinds, casting stripes across the hardwood, the light rug under the bed, the blankets piled on top of her. She felt weighed down, her body like lead, tethered to the mattress. She tucked her knees up to her chest, curled into the thick warmth of the comforter.
Would this ever get easier?
Was it supposed to?
It was early, too early to be awake but her eyes were wide, staring unseeingly into the obscure gloom in the room. The elephant on his wall stared back at her, its eyes piercing and wise from within the picture frame.
The symbol of strength and stability, honor and patience.
His breathing was even, a reassuring rhythm that filled the silence of the bedroom, and warmth radiated off his body, coating the skin of her back.
He'd been all these things for her, for a long time.
She rolled over; faced him where he lay sprawled out on his back, his hair unruly, sticking up in odd angles, his features slackened with sleep. For long moments she just watched him, the even rise and fall of his chest, the shimmer of his skin in the silvery dawn light and then she slid her hand over his skin, the cadence of his heartbeat strong underneath her palm, soothing in its familiar, life-affirming rhythm.
She curled closer, nudged against his side and his arm wrapped around her back, a sluggish movement from the depths of his sleep, pure instinct as he dragged her closer, pulled her half onto his chest with a deep, relieved sigh that coiled in her middle, spread warmth through her veins like a soothing balm. Her cheek settled onto his chest, the beat of his heart strong in her ear and she draped her leg over his hip, allowed herself to sink into his soothing, supportive embrace.
The next time she woke, bright sunlight was bathing the bedroom with a golden glow, and she was alone.
She wished he hadn't left.
Her heart was thumping thickly, the lump in her throat almost choking her and she swallowed around it, trying to push it down, down, away. The comforter was coiled around her legs like a vice and she struggled against it, kicking her legs until she was freed. She winced when the yellow, overly cheerful brightness hit her eyes, and squeezed them closed again, pulling the comforter over her head as she curled onto her side.
Fourteen years.
These days should be rainy, dark and dreary, somber like her memories, like the tragedy that forever altered everything that was beautiful.
The strong scent of coffee permeated her downy cocoon and the mattress dipped by her hip as Castle sat down next to her, the length of his thigh pressing against her calves. She shrugged out from under the covers, found him looking at her, holding a coffee mug out to her with a tender smile. There was no pity in his eyes, only quiet understanding and it was easier than she thought it would be, to smile back.
She sat up, pushed a few tangled strands of hair off her forehead as she settled against the headboard, her knees drawn up and she reached for her coffee, inhaled its familiar scent before she let the first sip coat her tongue and trail down her throat, almost too hot still but that too was a comfort, the stark, overpowering sensation. He settled next to her, his back against the headboard, his side aligned with hers, warm where their bodies were crowded together.
She never thought he could be this quiet when she first met him, when he seemed only loud and hyper and egotistical, yet he'd always had the uncanny ability to gauge her mood, be who and what she needed when it truly mattered.
"I don't know how to do this with someone," she admitted quietly, watching the ripples glide over the liquid in her mug when the stutter of her breath hit its surface. It had just been her, every year; her dad lost in his own misery for so many years that when he was finally better, she had learned to survive on her own.
"I'll do whatever you need me to do." He slid a hand over her knee, his fingertips drawing soothing circles on the soft flesh around her patella. "Even nothing, if that's what you want."
She turned her head, found him looking at her, his eyes soulful, the quiet strength of his look rippling through her, the intensity of his love infusing her heart and suddenly she needed nothing more than to feel him closer, to feel alive, to drown in the overwhelming comfort that only he could give.
She took both their mugs and placed them on the nightstand before she swung a leg over him, slid into his lap, crowding herself closer against his strong body, ever closer, the length of her torso pressed over his, the heat of his skin seeping into her, coiling fiercely through her blood.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, rested her forehead against his.
"Make me forget."
She was on fire, her body hot liquid that rose and fell in tumbling waves and she clung to him, her legs gripped around his hips to keep him close, close, close, holding him tightly to her through the scorching flood of sensation. Her thoughts were scattered, nothing surfacing but the fiery trail of his touch, the sizzle of his lips on her sensitized skin, the devastating feel of their bodies entwined, coiled tightly together.
He moved deliberately, every thrust meticulous, so intense that her spine arched and she buried her face into the crook of his neck, her teeth marking his collarbone. He held her through the tremors that rippled along her muscles, held her as she sank back into the mattress, her body a liquefied, boneless mass, held her through the calm, alleviating flow of her tears.
"She would've turned 62 this year," Kate murmured, her fingers reverently tracing the outline of her name, dipping into the grooves of the etching. Johanna Beckett.
She felt more than saw him squat down next to her, setting down the planter he bought right beside the one she had placed on the grave mere minutes ago. Planters with blossoms in bright colors, yellow and orange, cheerful and warm and full of life, like she wanted to remember her mother the most. Plants that would flower for months, maybe late into the fall if they were lucky, no deadened blossoms and leaves on her grave from a dried out bouquet. She sucked in a breath and he cupped a hand around her elbow, his quiet strength present and alive next to her.
"I can't envision what she would've looked like, getting older." She rose and Castle straightened beside her, his knuckles grazing hers by her side, and she flipped her hand over, twined her fingers through his, squeezing tightly. "She's always young and vibrant in my memories, younger even than she was when she died."
"You look a lot like her. She had those same bright, captivating eyes and that wide, breathtaking smile."
She smiled wistfully, turned her head to look at him. "She would've loved you, Castle."
He grinned, pleased and surprised and she squeezed his fingers. "She read your books before I ever did."
The memories flowed freely now, filling her head with images of her mother, nothing spectacular, just everyday gestures and quirks, pushing away the stark picture of her body crumpled and lifeless in the alley. "If she had her nose in a good book, I'm not sure she would've noticed if the house was on fire. She was completely engrossed, curled under an old shabby blanket she loved, her knees drawn up, and she'd nibble away at her fingernails without even noticing. She'd have to go get a manicure later, have them glue on fake nails so she'd look decent in court."
Her voice quivered, both with laughter and tears as her eyes brimmed with salty wetness. He wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her into his side and Kate rested her temple against his shoulder, let the tears trail down her cheeks, silent and cathartic.
"She liked to eat her toast with that odd salty Australian stuff on it, Vegemite, and it was so hard to find in stores. She loved all sorts of cheese, the more it smelled the better, and she'd make plates with grapes and apples and her cheeses, outright blissful as she ate. Her music taste was all over the place and she'd sing along to all the songs from the 60s on the radio but she couldn't really carry a tune at all. I was so embarrassed sometimes, when I was a teenager, but I'd give anything now to hear her off-key rendition of 'Stand By Me' one more time."
She sighed and wrapped an arm around his stomach, turning in his embrace. "I don't know Castle, I guess overall she was a normal person, she had quirks and talents and faults, but to me she was spectacular."
He smiled, the warmth of his look heating her skin, the intensity of the love in his eyes hot and overwhelming and soothing all at once. He trailed his fingers through her hair, over her cheeks, her jaw, cradling his palm around her face. "I can see why."
His eyes were dark blue, so full with everything, everything and her heart thudded, fluttered in her chest. "Take me somewhere, Castle. A place from your past. Somewhere that mattered."
He took her to the New York Public Library, drew her with him into the main reading room with its high, ornately carved ceilings and the painted blue sky and pink cotton-candy clouds, and the large, arched windows that let in an overabundance of the hazy light of the now overcast day. They sat down side by side on one of the long wooden tables, fingers still laced together between the armrests of their chairs. The soft rustle of papers echoed through the large width of the space, the quiet murmurs of patrons shifting, moving, whispering.
"This is where I'd come to get away," he murmured, his words low so as to not disturb the other readers, and she shifted closer to him, her ear by his mouth and his breath whispering over her skin.
"It's here that I discovered my love for the stories, the mysteries, the intrigue. I'd come here to get away, from a life that was so chaotic sometimes, loud and flamboyant and confusing but in here, things made sense. I understood the stories, good versus evil, right and wrong, happy or sad, it was all there, laid out in words that captivated me, drew me into their spell, made life seem magical, so full of possibilities. I spent hours here, absorbed in these worlds, and I grew with them. Saw the subtleties, the motivations, what drove people to do what they did, be how they were and it was just… fascinating. And when it wasn't enough, when the answers were lacking, left me dissatisfied, when the solutions didn't feel right, my mind would start whirring, with images and words and scenes to fill in those blanks."
"And that's how you came to write."
"That's how it all started, yes."
He rested his forehead against her temple and she closed her eyes for a moment, absorbed the tranquility of the moment, this quiet insight into what made him who he is.
They ended the night at the Old Haunt, the bar dark and quiet after the last patrons had left. He left off most of the lights and she scooted on one of the bar stools while he slid behind the bar.
"I think this night calls for a special drink." He pulled his keys out of his pocket with a flourish and unlocked a hidden cabinet under the counter, pulling out a bottle. She crossed her legs, leaned over the counter, smiling as he produced his precious, red bottle and poured generously into two crystal tumblers. Then he came back around, sat down on the bar stool next to her, her knees caught between his warm, muscled thighs.
Castle placed one thick, red candle on the bar between their shot glasses and lit it, his other hand resting calmly over her thigh and her breathing caught in her chest as she stared at the single flicker of light in front of them, a peaceful and lively thing in the darkness.
Kate curled her fingers around her tumbler, pulled the glass toward her on the polished surface of the counter before she lifted it, held it against her chest for a moment, right over her scar. And then she looked at Castle, held the glass high between them in a reverent toast.
"To my mom," she spoke into the quietness, her voice clear and strong, the sense of honor a vital beat in her heart.
Castle lifted his glass to hers, held her eyes with the penetrating blue of his gaze. "To Johanna Beckett. And all the fighters of lost causes, all the noble souls."
Her heart fluttered, her eyes swimming but she slowly sipped her whiskey, let its mellow, warm tones coat her tongue, simmer down her throat.
"Good?" He asked earnestly, and she felt the burn of his eyes on every inch of her skin as he watched the move of her fingers, the bob of her throat. She swallowed, licked her lips, his question so much more than just the taste of the drink and her heart leapt with it, a slow cascade of warmth tumbling through her blood. She nodded.
"Good."
End