Author's Note: OK, let's really try with this one. Fanfic is a pleasant distraction for me, but some parts of a story deserve the real stuff, whether you're getting paid or not.


Two weeks, three days. And counting.

The second week was the hardest. So far, anyway.

Beckett's routine had become robotic. Wake at 6:30AM unless she'd had an earlier call, and into the precinct by 07:45. Take a half hour for lunch at 1PM, during which she walked through the city without really noticing any of the thousands of people all around her. Work til 8PM. Go home. Have a bath, or maybe watch some TV. Go to bed before 11PM, and hope sleep came before long.

There were the crying sessions too. At home, and once in the women's restrooms at the precinct, safely hidden away in a stall. That one was at the start of the second week. She didn't cry in front of others, though. Not in front of Lanie, not in front of Ryan and Esposito, and not even in front of Dr. Burke, who said that while she was right to obey Castle's demand for time in the short term, there would also come a point when they would both benefit from confronting their feelings together. Beckett accepted the advice, but all she could think of was what Castle had said when she last saw him.

There's only one way this goes if we do it now.

And so she hadn't called, or texted, or turned up at his door. Hadn't gone anywhere near the Old Haunt. Hadn't emailed, or written. In the middle of the second week she'd checked his social media presence, but he'd said nothing at all there since before they last spoke.

Officially, he was catching up on overdue chapters, after being told to do so in no uncertain terms by Gina and Paula. That was the story she'd told Ryan and Esposito too, even though she knew they didn't believe it, and they knew that she knew. But they were her brothers, and so they let it be. She had made it clear to them that Castle wasn't to be disturbed, and they had understood the meaning if not the reasons behind it.

At night, when she went to bed and lay there awake in the dark, she'd sometimes pick up her phone and flick through the photos she'd kept on the device. Candid, goofy shots, mostly; Castle smirking at something, or playing a game on his own phone, or standing at the murder board. There was one she'd taken from the bullpen — with the shutter sound-effect silenced, of course — through the doorway of the break room, showing him facing away from her as he busied himself making coffee for the two of them. Sleeves rolled up, shoulders and back blocking most of the elaborate espresso machine from view, relaxed and at ease. Somehow, that photo was the most poignant one. It was the most ordinary of moments, taken completely for granted at the time, and she wasn't sure what quirk of mood had prompted her to capture it at all. It was a photo she could have taken multiple times per day, on almost any day of their years of working together.

But not now.

She had spent a lot of time thinking lately. Too much time, probably, and it was amazing just how quickly the truth of it all was laid bare, in the obviousness of retrospection. Things tended to be clearest only afterwards; at the time, they were shrouded in complication and nuance, possibility and ambiguity. But afterwards, they became abruptly simpler, with every extraneous detail revealed to be trivial and unimportant.

Like the essential truth that she'd roped him into being her accomplice in slowing down the rate of change in her life. That their unspoken understanding — their dance, as he'd probably say now — was a holding pattern that allowed him to hope, and her to hide. That it was fundamentally unhealthy, and that it had gone past the limits of therapeutic recovery quite a while ago. That she'd felt trapped, at first by her injuries and the trauma that went along with them, and then by his confession, and ultimately by her own lie. That she was deferring facing these real issues, by dressing them up as part of older ones. As part of a wall that, while real, had become a completely permeable barrier where he was concerned. A wall that was brick to everyone else, but smoke to not just him, but her too. Smoke that he could walk through, if she allowed him, to join her inside — or that she could equally walk out of to meet him.

The most obvious thing, though, and the most painful, was the truth which everyone else had long since realised: she loved him. The idea of not loving him, of not being in love with him, was now ridiculous and unimaginable. She wasn't sure exactly when the physics of it had flipped, but now it was simply impossible to imagine it ever being any other way. It was the truth, and she knew how to recognise truth when she found it.

She felt like the world's biggest fool, and she had no-one to blame but herself. She knew what he was like — or at least, what he'd been like since not long after he met her, once he'd decided on her. Faithful, devoted, dauntless — but taking her lead, because to do anything else would make her shut him out. Waiting patiently, even after three months of silence when what he most needed was to be able to help her heal, and make her laugh, and make her believe that she would be strong again. He had physically needed to do that because it was an intrinsic part of his character and his heart, but she hadn't allowed it. So he had probably lain awake, like this, for one week and then two, and then three and then four, and then all the rest. Now she knew, just a little, what it must have felt like.

Then, finally, her lie — and how she confessed it to a suspect, almost casually, to get the upper hand. Oh, there was no question that Castle was right to feel what he was feeling now. No surprise that, after four years, she had finally managed to push him far enough to make the gentle, humorous, reasonable, and accommodating man finally armour himself, and throw her out of his home and his life. In a strange way, and in the rare moments when she could briefly look objectively at his position, she was even wistfully proud of him for it. Perhaps it would be a lesson, and would help him avoid more pain in the future.

In the end, all these realisations had come easily, and with the harsh clarity of not knowing what you have until it's gone. Months of therapy, years of questions, and decades of building barriers — but the answers ultimately needed only the shock of loss to make themselves clear. It was all laid bare, in black and white, in hardly any time at all. Two weeks, three days.

And counting.


Today was Saturday, or as she couldn't help but think of it, the third Saturday. Beckett had made tentative plans to meet Lanie for dinner, but her friend was still finalising her own weekend, and would call later to confirm, but Beckett knew she had to get out of her apartment regardless.

It was almost 11AM, and the November morning was bright, clear, and cold. She was bundled up against the temperature, her gloved hands pushed into her coat pockets as she walked along the busy sidewalk, focusing on nothing but her breathing. She'd been walking for more than half an hour, letting her feet take her where they may, and the sound of a nearby car horn brought back some awareness of her surroundings.

The park is just up there, she thought. Across the street and one further block along, there was the little park with the swings. There was also the bookshop, though she'd avoided those completely since… well, since a few weeks ago. And of course, there was also the coffee shop.

She knew that Castle was a regular at more than one place during the working week, depending on whether he was collecting coffee on his way to meet her at a crime scene, or bringing coffee to the precinct. This street wasn't particularly near the loft, but it wasn't far from work, and the coffee shop up ahead was where he collected their drinks on so many mornings.

She felt the emotions rise up in her quickly — it had been happening much more often lately — and she considering turning around and walking away. But another part of her, a more insistent part, wanted some small measure of connection with him. She could at least buy her own coffee, as she'd had to during these dark weeks, and then think of him. She resumed her slow pace.

The universe is vast, and strange, and its moods are obscure — but it is not random. It has a certain perverse sense of humour. And so, it was inevitable that as she came within a couple of doors of the coffee shop, its own door opened, and a man stepped out and began to walk away from her. He was tall, and his hair was dark, and he wore a long coat of navy blue wool. He carried a cup of coffee, and his gait was so very like Castle's that for a moment, it physically pained her. She watched the man as he moved farther away from her along the sidewalk, approaching the next junction. It was hardly surprising that she imagined she was seeing him everywhere. It was how things worked. The mind, having lost something, tries too hard to find it again.

The universe is infinitely complex, and indifferent to small concerns — but it is not cruel. It has an inscrutable agenda. And so, it was inevitable that when the man reached the corner of the junction, clearly intending to cross diagonally, and when he turned to glance up and down the street to check for traffic, she saw that it was, in fact, Castle. All the breath flew out of her in a single gasp.

Even at this distance, she could see that he looked like hell. He wore only a blue t-shirt under his winter coat, instead of a button-down shirt. He had several days' beard growth on his face, and his eyes had dark circles under them. He even looked a little thinner in the face.

He lifted his coffee cup to take a sip, and then he lifted his other, empty hand and looked at it briefly. Then he stepped off the sidewalk and quickly crossed to the other side, before continuing on his way. When he reached the nearest entrance to the park, he hesitated for a moment, then he headed inside.

He hadn't seen her, not least because she shrank against the window of a small bakery as soon as she recognised him. She stood completely still for another few seconds, locked in wordless debate with herself. She could turn around and leave. She could get the coffee she'd decided on earlier, and leave. She could just keep walking, staying safely on this side of the street and keeping her head down. She could hail a cab.

The universe offers endless options, and its inhabitants have absolute free will — but only within the framework of its narrative. Some paths are illusions, and sometimes, there is only one choice.

She ran.