Caveat lector – please read.
This is now a tragedy fic with major character death (hey, it's titled C'est La Mort). I wanted to explore how it would affect Rick if the worst happened the one time he listened to Kate and stayed away as she requested.
Feel free to unfollow or stop reading if this is not your cup of tea. I'm cool with that.
Again, death and angst and grief in this chapter. But also light at the end of the tunnel.
"If you can't fix what's broken, you'll go insane." —Max Rockatansky
X
He sits in the chair—his chair, no longer at her desk—gripping the armrests tightly, half afraid that if he lets go, he'll slide off the word and into nothingness, and half hoping such a thing could happen. He stares at the board. Her picture's at the top, and a few things, so very few things, are written and posted around it.
Body found in vacant lot near nightclub
Estimated time of death: midnight – 2 a.m.
Single GSW back of head
No other injuries
These few details, marooned in a sea of white board.
He knows a few other things, of course, information that Ryan and Esposito have relayed to him. No witnesses. The noise from the nightclub drowned out the gunshot; no one heard a thing. The handcuffs that bound her hands behind her back are her own. Her gun is missing, as is her phone and her personal laptop and any files she may have had with her. A search of the extended-stay hotel where she was living turned up only her clothes and toiletries—there's nothing to indicate that Kate Beckett was doing anything at that hotel but staying there. No clues as to what case she was working on. Likewise, a search of her office has turned up nothing outside of NYPD cases and paperwork. Ryan and Esposito searched both hotel room and office themselves after two CSU sweeps turned up nothing. They came up empty.
"Castle?"
He looks up to see Ryan there; the detective's boyish face has aged ten years in the last week. Castle can't bring himself to speak, so he just nods in acknowledgment.
"Ballistics came back," Ryan says. "It's…she was shot with her own gun."
Castle tells himself not to imagine how it happened and does so anyway. He wonders how they got the gun from her. There were no other injuries, so it probably wasn't by force. Some sort of threat? He may never know.
"And still no sign of Vikram. He didn't show up for work, same as Beckett. We finally found where he was staying. It's completely clean, just like…" Ryan trails off, turns to stare at the murder board. He blinks fiercely, keeping tears just at bay. "I'm sorry. I am so fucking sorry, Castle."
"It's not your fault," Castle says. He doesn't say, It's mine, despite how true it is. If he'd only listened to his instincts. If he hadn't chosen this one time to not fight alongside her. And he doesn't say, It's hers, though that's true as well. If she hadn't pursued whatever it was that got her killed. If she hadn't shut all of them out.
A new voice from behind them. "Mr. Castle?"
He turns to see the new interim captain. Castle has been introduced to the man and has spoken with him several times, and can't remember a thing about him except that his last name begins with T.
"Mr. Castle, I appreciate your connection to this case, but as you are no longer…I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave the precinct. I'm sorry."
Castle nods. He understands. Letting go of the armrests is difficult; his hands cramp painfully as he unlocks them. He gets to his feet, wavers unsteadily for a moment; he can't remember the last time he ate something. He and Ryan embrace and then part without a word. They'll see each other tomorrow. On the way out he passes by Esposito's desk. Castle still finds it difficult to think of that phone call. Hearing tough-as-nails Javi weep had told Castle more than any actual words could. Now Esposito's tears are gone and his face is stonier than Castle's ever seen it. There's a grim light in his eyes, and Castle knows at once that if they ever find whoever killed Kate, Esposito won't bother with an arrest.
He leaves the precinct building and stands outside on the sidewalk for a moment. He's quite certain that he'll never go back into the building again. He has no reason to.
X
A feeling of déjà vu sweeps over him at the cemetery. Same place where Montgomery was laid to rest. Same gorgeous weather, only this time it's Indian summer instead of late spring. Many of the same people in attendance. The same ceremony and ritual for laying a fallen officer to rest.
Castle takes his place to read his eulogy, the one he's written and rewritten several times over during the week. He takes it out of his pocket, and the words blur before his eyes, turn to meaningless scribbles. Help me, Kate, he begs silently. Remembering that look she gave him at Montgomery's funeral, he glances to the side, but she's not there. He stuffs the paper back into his pocket and extemporizes about the extraordinary detective who put so many murderers behind bars and brought down a corrupt senator. About the woman who was his partner and his best friend and his wife. About how much he'll miss her.
Afterward, he has no idea what exact words he said. Everyone tells him his eulogy was lovely. He lets his mother and his daughter embrace him and they whisper that it will be all right. He knows it won't.
X
The first week was hell.
It was hell, but there were things to give him purpose: making arrangements, answering questions, talking with Ryan and Esposito. But on the day after the funeral, he wakes and gets up and makes coffee and then goes straight back to bed because there's no reason for him not to. He's barely rested this last week and sleep comes easily.
He's not sure what to call the thing that wakes him. He's drifting to consciousness, becoming aware of the empty space on the other side of the bed. Castle feels tears sting his eyes and is relieved, so relieved—he has barely been able to cry this last week and he longs to give release to his grief.
Between one breath and the next, it happens. A sensation of suffocating paralysis, as if he's sunk chin-deep in some sort of quicksand, unable to take more than tiny breaths. It's worse than drowning; it feels as if he's being crushed. Just when he fears that he'll start to hear bones crack, he's released. Gasping, skin slick with cold sweat, he wonders what the hell that was. Some sort of panic attack. Probably a one-time thing.
It isn't. It happens the next time he tries to give in to grief, and the time after that.
All he wants is to mourn his wife, and he can't.
All he wants is to know why she died, and he probably won't. Ryan and Esposito call and text, but their messages are mostly apologies for not learning anything new and inquiries as to how he's doing.
He says he's all right. He's pretty fucking far from all right.
For all its spaciousness, the loft is too small. There are too many memories, too many ghosts. Kate's things are still here. Her presence is here. Her scent. He wants to cherish all of the reminders of her, but when he does, that feeling of suffocation and paralysis squeezes him in its grip.
On impulse one day, he leaves the loft, not having any particular destination in mind. He walks, and it's quite some time before he realizes that he does know where he's going. It's in the park, under some trees, where they once found a body. The steampunk guy. He stands at what was a crime scene years ago, stands there for hours and remembers.
It soon becomes the only thing he wants to do. He roams the city, walking to all the places where they talked and discussed murders and teased each other. Alleys and hotels, parks and the pier. He never takes a cab or car. He walks everywhere, venturing into sketchy areas at any time of day or night, uncaring what happens to him. Perhaps his indifference serves as a shield, for no one troubles him. Perhaps muggers or other predators are discomfited by the sight of this haunted-looking man, increasingly gaunt and graying, who stands in random street corners and dead ends and stares off into memory.
X
"Dad?"
It takes him a few moments to wake. He's not entirely sure what time he came back to the loft last night. He'd made the mistake of walking to a certain alley where Kate had once stood, surrounded by garbage but never looking lovelier, and had told him she wouldn't let him raise their baby on his own. Would any of this be easier if it had happened after they'd had a child? Maybe she wouldn't have left if there had been a child as well.
"Dad?"
His daughter looks down at him. Even for a redhead she's pale, and worry lines are starting to etch themselves in her forehead. One more thing to lay at his door. This grief and worry he's putting his daughter through.
"I'm awake. What is it?" he croaks out.
"I need you to come out to the living room. There are some papers you need to sign."
"What papers?"
"Life insurance. Kate's pension."
His first impulse is to ask that they just be mailed to him, but it's something he really should attend to himself. "Give me a minute."
She nods. "I'll put some coffee on," she says as she turns to leave.
"Thanks, pumpkin."
She turns and looks at him. There's something familiar about her expression. He's seen it before. He's not sure when or where, only that the circumstances were not pleasant. Before he can think on it more, she leaves the bedroom and he slowly starts maneuvering out of bed. There's no need to get dressed; he's still wearing the same clothes he's worn for the last few days.
Castle steps into the living room, and it takes a moment for him to understand what he's seeing. Not some insurance company minion with a handful of papers to sign, but quite a few people. Ryan and Esposito. Lanie. Gina. Jim. He hears a muttered "Jesus Christ" off to his left and sees Gates sitting there with a look of shock on her face.
"What is this?" he asks. No one answers. He glances back toward his bedroom—if he could retreat there, he could get away from all of them and the way they're looking at him, but his mother is standing in front of the door. He turns back and sees his daughter standing by the front door.
He starts to ask what's happening, and then stops, knowing what it is: an intervention.
Later, he's never sure who starts talking or what most of them say. He doesn't respond at first. How can he? None of this would have happened if they hadn't convinced him that he should respect Kate's wishes to stay out of whatever she was involved in. Every instinct of his had told him to stay by her side, and he'd left her, persuaded to by his friends and his family. He'd yielded to their arguments and to his own weariness at being second-best to Kate's need for justice.
It's like his eulogy; he's talking but not entirely aware of what he's saying. Until one sentence comes through: "You don't know what it's like!"
He's instantly ashamed, because Jim Beckett knows. Because Ryan and Esposito know. Lanie knows. Because he recognizes the look on Alexis's face now; she's frightened, as scared as she was when she Skyped him from Paris.
Castle turns away from them, toward his bedroom door. He sees his mother and notices that she has stopped coloring her hair; it's a natural gray now. When did this happen? How long has he been in this state?
He tells them he needs a few minutes, and turns and goes into his bathroom. He only intends to splash some water on his face, but for the first time in who knows how long he actually looks at his reflection.
The reason for Gates's oath at the sight of him is clear. His hair is long and unwashed and shot through with thick streaks of gray. His endless walks have whittled him down to a shade of his old self, and his eyes are like black pits in his skull.
Something Jim Beckett said in the other room gets through to him now. "You vowed to live with Katie. You don't have to die with her."
Part of him wishes he had, no question. And part of him knows he still could. It would be easy. It's like his quicksand nightmares. All he has to do is let go, let himself sink, and it will be over. So easy, once you make your mind up to it.
Some time later, he's showered and dressed in fresh clothes and looking through his office desk. He can see them all in the living room still, watching him covertly through the gaps in the bookshelf walls. He focuses on finding what he's looking for: a business card. When he finds it, he makes a call. He's in luck; Dr. Burke is in, and is eager to help him. Arrangements are made. Private hospital. They'll be expecting him today.
He steps out into the living room, tells everyone his decision. He doesn't thank them, but his decision seems to be enough for them, for now.
His mother and daughter call a cab and ride with him to the hospital. He stays there for six weeks.
To be continued…
