Terribly sorry for the rather long gap in between updates, and for the lack of review replies. I'm sure everyone here knows how difficult real life can get at times, and the last month has been hectic and stressful, to say the least. Here's the next part though, so I hope you enjoy!
When she knocks on his door, no one answers, and her heart sinks even lower than she thought possible. Evidently, tonight would be a night of odd surprises – she just hopes he'll surprise her too and listen to her, instead of what has become the usual brush-off.
Knocking again, she shifts her weight from her right foot to her left, the ache pulsing through her bones only partially due to the three-inch stilettos she'd worn today. The silence behind the door permeates the hallway with an unwelcoming chill, and she draws an unsteady, uneasy breath.
Even his home seems to be giving her the cold shoulder.
Perhaps it would be best if she came back in the morning. She'll be more relaxed, well-rested, ready to face whatever vitriol he might throw at her. It'll give her time to think of what to say. She could just turn around, go home, pour herself a glass of that lovely red she has sitting in her cupboard, run herself a hot bath and read a good book. Not one of his, but she's sure she could find something equally as engaging…
No. She quashes the urge to turn tail and run, because if she starts going down that road, she'll never stop. And isn't that what she's spent the last year trying not to do? If she leaves now, all the work will have been for nothing. Her fears will become her personal Wile E. Coyote – if only they had the accent to go with them. At least then they wouldn't cripple her.
A sigh is pulled out of her reluctant lungs as she slides down the wall next to his door and crumples in on herself. Her heavy head falls to her knees with a painful knock, her throbbing skull matching the tired beat of her heart. She will not let herself cry, despite the lump in her throat that threatens to drain the salt water from every hidden pocket of soul, making them dry, lifeless.
She's just so tired. Tired of putting on an undefeatable façade when all she really feels like doing is crawling under her sheets and turning off the lights. Tired of fighting herself at every single turn, at every obstacle her arduous recovery has thrown at her. Tired of pretending she hasn't been crazy in love with Richard Castle for the past three years.
She can feel herself falling into an exhausted stupor – after the week she's had, who would blame her? – and she has just enough time to wonder if she'll be there until the morning before her mind takes her to a dream-world where she's sleeping in a soft bed next to his warm body before he stirs and puts an arm heavy around her waist and opens his blue eyes warmly and says-
"Kate?" The hoarse, bewildered word sinks into her subconscious, reeling her back in to lucid alertness. Her eyelids peel open feeling gritty and dry, almost as if she was hungover or coming off a long shift. The ache in her neck certainly feels like the latter, but the harsh wall at her back swiftly reminds her where she is and what she should be doing.
She looks up and sees him standing over her, black jacket slung carelessly over his arm, keys dangling in one hand. The bruises under his eyes are more prominent in the half-light, the thick purple-blue brushstrokes with too much paint making him look as worn-thin as she feels.
"Castle." Her voice is a muted whisper – soft, yet still saturated with the tiring day she's had, and the uncertainty that so often surrounds their interactions these days.
"Did you fall asleep here?" He ignores the sound of his name on her lips, his voice stronger this time; less unsure, but still confused. Was that a hint of worry? Or was she just projecting her own feelings onto him and pushing too hard for a response? After all, it wouldn't be the first time in the last few weeks that her attempts at affection had been coolly rebuffed by his apparent lack of care.
She hums an affirmative reply to his question as she digs her fingers into the kinks in her neck and upper back, choking down a groan of pain as she hits the knots. It doesn't look like she stifled it completely though, because his jaw clenches and his brow sets in an unforgiving line.
"How long have you been here?"
"Depends," she murmurs, still groggy. "What time is it?" He jerks his red shirtsleeve up angrily to look at the gold watch around his wrist. It's a new one – or at least, new to her. She wonders if he wore it specially for the flight attendant, and then decides bitterly that she would rather not know.
"It's just after midnight." Her eyes widen in shock.
"It's really been six hours?" The question spills out of her mouth before she can stop it, surprise at the amount of time she'd spent dozing by his door colouring her voice. He's surprised too, by the looks of it. His eyes turn to dinner plates and his mouth falls open slightly, before he tamps his emotions down behind his steel mask. She wonders if he learnt that trick from her.
"I suppose you'd better come in," he mumbles half-heartedly after a while, and steps around her outstretched legs to press the key into the lock. He pushes the door open with one shoulder and gestures for her to enter, although there's nothing welcoming or friendly in the motion. Instead, he watches as she struggles to her feet by herself, scar tissue tugging at the flesh around her ribs as his face remains impassive.
The loft is dark when she enters, devoid of the life and laughter she's come to crave from this place. The place that a small, hopeful part of her heart longs to call home someday; a possibility that seems to be shrinking and vanishing into non-existence with each breath she takes.
Shaking the pins and needles out of her dead legs, she turns to see him close the door behind him, the resounding echo much louder and heavier in the silence than she expected. She shivers, the cream sweater currently wrapped around her too-thin body not doing much to ward off the chill of the room or the cold of his stare when he thinks she isn't looking.
"Coffee?" he grunts. She nods quietly, doesn't know where Martha and Alexis are or even how to ask. She would probably receive a short word or stony silence in response, as if she's somehow lost the right to inquire after the people she cares about. Instead, as he busies himself with the coffee grounds and snatches a bottle of milk from the fridge, she decides to skip over the awkward small talk and just dive in.
"You're probably wondering why I'm here," she begins tentatively, readying herself to unfold her heart, "but–"
"Oh, I've given up wondering why you do things," he says flippantly in what is probably meant to be a light tone, but the notes of black ice seep through and she feels as if she's just been hit in the stomach with a cold steel bar. Her days as a rookie on the force mean she knows exactly what that particular sensation is like, and she can barely stand upright as the wind leaves her in an unforgiving rush. She struggles to take another breath that isn't laced with one of the most profound heart-breaks she's ever felt, and she realises he hasn't quite finished crumpling her like the shoddy first draft of a bad book, because he opens his mouth again.
"Personally," he continues in an almost conversational voice, "I find it easier to just stop caring. After all," and he looks her dead in the eye for the first time tonight, gives a mirthless chuckle that wraps around her ribs like a thicket of brambles. "It worked for you, didn't it?"
Barring any unforeseen dilemmas, the next part should take less time than this one did. In other news, I finally have a tumblr account, so feel free to follow me if you want – my username is exactly the same as it is here. See you next time!
