He was hunched in the oversized chair in his living room looking like a hurt and hulking beast. He had turned the fireplace on even though the inside of his apartment was not particularly cold. But he was, inside. He hoped the flames and whiskey could drive it away or at least beat it back to the point that he would have enough wherewithal to answer the cell phone ring that had been providing his background music for the past two hours.
Outside the rain drove in silvery, angry daggers against the windowpane.
What an appropriate ambiance. Rick thought bitterly before taking another swig from the glass of whisky in front of him. He stared intently at the chair across from him, his eyes roving over the details of an item so familiar and so foreign that the paradox clawed at his insides.
He heard a quiet step behind him and then a heavy sigh.
His mother. Even the things that no one else was supposed to hear came out dramatically.
"Richard, darling." Her voice was quiet, like a wind through bulrushes.
She approached the second chair and gingerly removed the Kevlar vest with "WRITER" blazed across the chest like it was a sacred relic.
She sighed again after she settled down into the chair across from him and he could see every line on her face made soft by the rain and firelight. For the first time her noticed a little bit of her usual sparkle was gone, her brightness had dimmed. The worry was clearly curled up in her eyes, like an ever-present lazy cat.
"Richard." She paused and her son knew that she was considering her words carefully, turning them over in her head like river rocks. She petted the top of one hand with the palm of her other, a nervous habit of hers.
"I think it is time you start living again dear. I know that a big part of you died that day..."
The piercing ring of his cell phone cut through the rooms heavy, swirling shadows and the melancholy mood that had settled over them.
He once again pressed the ignore button and looked across the room at his mother with sad, worn out eyes. He couldn't put a name to his feelings yet. Wouldn't. He was still in the bright green grass with the warm sticky scarlet on his hands, the taste of bullets and bile in his mouth and the raspy gasp of her fading breaths loud in his ears. He was still in anguish in her doorway, holding her again in his arms. Crushing her to make sure she was real, the smell of her hair capturing his senses with its delicate scent. He was still walking out of her apartment building with his coat in his hands and his heart in his shoes.
He took one deep breath, two. The sound of his phone jolted him back to where he was sitting across from his mother the tearstains across the front of his shirt still drying in the firelight.
"Darling, who is calling you? It must be important, they won't stop ringing the phone."
He looked at his mother again looking so small in her silk robe across from him and felt defeated. A bit of his resolve crumbled. How could he tell her? He lifted the glass of whisky to his lips, glad for the fire it shot down to his stomach that reminded him he could still feel something bright. His hand was shaking; he held the glass too hard. It was a concentrated effort to put in back down.
The phone rang again.
He hit ignore again.
And still, his mother sat there, with her beseeching look.
"A ghost." He finally answered, a bit amused at his bitter witticism. " A ghost is calling me mother."
He instantly regretted his tone when he saw the shadow of concern and confusion fall over her face. She took a deep breath.
"Rick, Kate is..." she was interrupted by a frantic pounding on the door.
"CASTLE! CASTLE, I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!" It was loud and demanding, but the kind of loud that tells you a person is scared and vulnerable.
"Here, mother." Castle answered. "Kate is here."