DISCLAIMER: "Castle" and all its wonderful characters are the property of ABC and Andrew Marlowe. Much as I enjoy playing with them, I unfortunately do not own them. So too with Greg Laswell's "Not Out" which served as the inspiration for this story. Please don't sue me.
And I'm sure that I am tangled up in things you said out loud to me, so recklessly. - Greg Laswell "Not Out"
She braces against the tree, knees buckled, vision swaying, but she will not allow herself to fall. Not this time. Deep breaths, calming breaths, steadying breaths. The scar on her side tightens, she kneads it with the butt of her palm. Deep, calm, steady breaths.
Slowly the pain subsides, as does the exhaustion that forced her to clutch the rough bark of the pine when her legs collapsed beneath her.
She hates this. She hates the struggle just to pull herself from the tangle of sweat-damp sheets in the morning. She hates the tightness in her chest and the weakness in her limbs. She hates being damaged.
But that is what she is. And that is why she is here – fifty feet from cabin and shore, stuck in the middle, too far to turn back but without the strength to go further. So she clings to the only solid thing she has left and she waits. She focuses on the beauty of her surroundings, the glowing beams of light that pierce and magnify the shade, the whisper of the breeze, the wondrous smell of pine and dirt and clean mountain air. And she thinks about how he would describe this scene. What words could capture the indescribable qualities of this nature? What words would he use to capture her?
Her heart seizes up again when a squirrel clatters across the branches over head. She has to remind herself where she is – there are no snipers looming overhead, only the canopy of pines and the brilliant blue sky.
When she's rested enough, she pushes away from the tree that had served as her anchor. After the first week of being cooped up in the cabin, moping and miserable, she'd promised her father to get outside and spend time at the lake shore every day. She intends to keep that promise.
It does her good. But some days it's a chore. Days like today when her body rebels. Days when, in her frustration, she gives into the baser parts of her personality and broods.
She's forced to stop once more on her way when she carelessly walks into a spider web and trips on a root, but she finally makes it to the shore where her dad arranged a place for her when they first arrived. It's just a simple wood table and lawn chair but it is situated in the perfect spot, where she can hear the water gently lapping against the grass at the shore and see the whole expanse of shimmering lake and rising tree line open up before her.
She nestles into the chair and reaches blindly into the messenger bag she'd plopped onto the table. In it her dad had packed a water bottle and lunch. She grabs the water, takes a swig, then rummages around for the book that got jostled to the bottom during her journey. But when she finally grabs a hold and pulls it from the depths it is not Sue Grafton's V is for Vengeance that emerges.
Instead she sees his name, big and bold, blazing across the top of the jacket.
Richard Castle.
Her breath leaves her.
Heat Rises
She shakes with anger. Indignation is the word. This is a cheap shot. A low blow. A sucker punch.
She curses her father and his passive aggressive meddling.
They've fought over this. Over her sequestration. Her refusal to talk to him, or about him. The elder Beckett doesn't know exactly why she's pulled away, but that hasn't stopped him from throwing jabs at her in his own way. Like this.
The temptation to fling the book into the water is strong...but so is the temptation to open it. To get lost in his colorful words, let them pull her from reality and into the cathartic embrace of escapism.
But these novels have too much of her. And too much of him. There's no escape. Especially when she peels back the cover and a dedication to the fallen greets her.
She snaps the book closed and let's it slip from her fingers to the dirt below.
Too quickly she hoists herself from the chair. She has to get away. But her scar pulls tightly and she cries out in pain as she staggers back towards the treeline.
It's too much. She forces herself upright and on the strength of her will alone she pushes her body back towards the cabin. Away from the book, its author and all the things she's been trying to avoid.
The cabin stands silent when she finally stumbles up its sturdy wooden steps. She is grateful not to run into her dad on the way in. She can't be sure how she'd react in his presence. It might be bad. Scratch that. It would definitely be bad. Painfully slow recovery has made her temper short.
Her room is entirely too bright (another of her dad's passive aggressive moves, opening the blinds wide every morning, forcing her to face the sunlight). She shutters it back into darkness and climbs into bed.
Curled up in the dark she tries to push everything away. But the more she fights, the tighter the thoughts tangle around her, until she drifts into a fitful sleep.
Black water swarms around her as she swims against the current. A flash of lightning strikes dangerously close but she keeps her legs churning because she has a mission. The truth is out there and she must find it off in the distance. Her limbs are tireless and strong. She swims with abandon and purpose.
Then over the crash of thunder and the raging waves she hears it. An unintelligible voice shouting for her. She stops, wading in the churning water, frantically searching for the source. A boat pulls up along side her. He stands on the deck, waving his arms and shouting. For the first time she feels fear. He shouldn't be here. There is a dragon in these waters. She can see it circling underneath her. All gnashing teeth and claws. He shouldn't be here! She shouts at him to leave. Then she goes back to fighting the waves, urging herself towards the mysterious black. But now she feels the chill of the water. She feels the tight weight of fear dampen her resolve. And suddenly the waves are too high, the water too cold and the dragon too near to risk herself, not when safety is so close. Not when the future sounds so beautiful with his arms wrapped around her. Not when he has to ability to make the past a distant memory.
She chances a look back at him, considers how easy it would be to...but he's gone. He's gone and her heart clenches and all she sees is the black. So she swims. Because that's what she does. That's what she's always done. She swims onward, into the darkness. Straight at the dragon whose fangs are now barred and bloody.
A net blankets her suddenly, trapping her behind rough rope. She flails against it. Kicks her feet, punches her hands, but they just catch on the mesh, further disabled by the twisting threads. The net begins to rise, pulled from the water by a lever, attached to the boat which bore down on her from behind without her knowledge.
He's shouting again as he raises her from the water. But this time she can't hear him over her own cries. She was so close! She is so close! Don't, don't, don't! She doesn't want to be saved. She wants to fight.
He pulls her dripping, thrashing body on board. She struggles to free herself, to dive back in and swim. But his net obstructs her movement, and now too his hands press down trying to steady her shaking. All the while he speaks, the same words over and over.
She wakes to his voice, whispering in her ear. Kate I lo-
No.
She won't allow herself down that path. She can't – won't – face those words. Not now.
She has resolved forget. Her dad says she's in denial. Not willing to face the reality of her near death experience.
"That's not like you, Katie," he says. "You don't stick your head in the sand. You fight for the truth."
And he's right.
But he thinks she's hiding from the shooting. She's not.
She's hiding from him.
In a way she's punishing him. Poetic justice the writer in him might have called it under different circumstances. A year ago he disappeared for the summer, cut off all contact and left her hanging in the wind, vulnerable and alone. She is just giving him a taste of his own medicine. It's petty, but with a bullet in her chest and bitterness in her heart she feels entitled to some pettiness.
She's angry. No, not angry. She is agitated. Agitated because his confession plays like an ultimatum in her head. Because you can't speak such things without begging the underlying question.
It's a question she can't answer.
And now there's no turning back. She can't untangle herself from the knowledge. She's stuck between denial of something she wants and acceptance of something she's not ready for and she blames him for that.
So instead of taking it out on him in person (unfairly if she's honest with herself), she is taking it out on him in absence.
Words unspoken may be cruel, but they do less irreversible damage than those uttered in frustration. And she doesn't think she could talk to him, see him, right now without destroying everything.
Because she can't address the entirely too-honest fight they had in her apartment. Nor his reckless confession as she lay bleeding beside the grave of her mentor.
Where do they stand if she can't even own up to that? Where can they stand?
She rolls out of bed gingerly. Her head is uncomfortably groggy from sleep. She feels off-balance, out of whack, and frankly, less refreshed than when she started.
The light glowing from behind the window blinds is too soft to be daylight, so she guesses that evening has arrived. Which means the clanking of pots now drifting up from the kitchen are signs of her dad preparing dinner.
She's still mad at him, but the anger has faded into irritation. And irritation isn't enough to stop her from addressing her empty stomach.
When she enters, he's leaning over the stove, stirring what looks and smells like a pot of spaghetti sauce.
On the oak table behind him she spies her canvas messenger bag, Heat Rises carefully placed beside it. He must have gone down to the lake to retrieve them while she slept.
"You shouldn't have done that," she says softly from the doorway.
He turns and smiles woefully.
"I think I did. He sent an advance copy."
She crosses her arms and dares to meet his eyes.
"His books helped you once."
"It's different now," she answers. She wishes she didn't sound so petulant. She wishes she was sure that was true.
He goes back to stirring the pot, deflated almost. Like he knows there's no use in arguing. But then he stops, plops the still dripping spoon on the side of the stove and turns to face her full on, a scowl marring his usually soft features.
"No. No, it's not Katie," he chastises. "Look at what you're doing to yourself. This isn't healing. This is hiding. And you're never going to get better until you admit some things to yourself. What are you hiding from? I know it's not that sniper. You've been ready to jump back into your mother's case since you got out of the hospital. You're hiding from Castle. And you need to think long and hard about why that is. What are you so afraid of?"
She feels like a child being scolded. Maybe that's what she is.
"I'm not afraid. I'm just tired. I need space."
"Stop lying to yourself, Katie." He says it softly, an apology for being so harsh before, but also a challenge. He's challenging her to fight him on this.
She doesn't answer, doesn't know how to answer. She doesn't want to fight. She wants to crawl back into bed and forget. But that's the problem isn't it? She can only hide for so long.
Her dad moves around the table, grabs the book and strides towards her the way someone might approach a cornered animal. He grabs her hand and places the book reverently in her arms. The smooth jacket is cool to the touch. She can't help herself swiping her thumb over the raised lettering of the title.
"Go read," he says, a command not a suggestion. "I'll bring you dinner when it's ready."
She nods, the obedient daughter for once in her life, then glances down at the book. She sees his smug face and feels an overwhelming longing.
She misses him.
It's a difficult realization to be having, when she's been telling herself all summer that he's the last person she wants to see.
But the truth is, she misses him. And while she might not be willing to face up to other difficult truths yet, her first step for now is to accept this one.
So when her dad nudges her towards the couch she goes willing. She sits down, draws her legs under her and opens to the first page.
"The thing about New York City is you never know what's behind a door..."
A/N: I have been writing fanfiction for nearly ten years, though I've never posted any of it. That is partially because of my own insecurities, but mostly because I'm terrible at finishing what I start. This was a plot bunny that jumped into my head while I was listening to the song quoted up top and I decided to use it as an exercise in forcing myself to finish. I hope you enjoyed it. I may or may not be posting a companion piece from Castle's perspective inspired by Mumford and Son's "White Blank Page" because the plot bunnies seem to be breeding... Anyways, I'd appreciate reviews, even if it's just a a simple "like" or "dislike."
Fight On! and You'll Never Walk Alone