A/N: I am going to finish WTF for the loyal readers who have followed me during my Castle FanFic time. I will warn you that these chapters will probably be shorter than some in the past. I will write and post as quickly as I can. For those of you still reading, thank you for teaching me so much about being a writer. I am better because you were a part of the process. KF
Chapter 11 – Cold Coffee
The 12th Precinct rattled with tension tangled irrevocably with unbridled anger and grief. Richard Castle's death had unleashed an array of shockwaves throughout every facet of the NYPD. Officers who knew him personally were taking it so, and those who did not, suffered as though one of their own had been struck down because, to them, that was who he was.
The darkened, empty office of Captain Katherine Beckett Castle drew the professional family together where a makeshift memorial began to take shape on and around what everyone knew to be Castle's chair. There were hand-written notes on post-its, business cards, flowers, copies of his Nikki Heat books, and even a small stuffed big-foot and zombie that elicited brief smiles of recollection from those who really knew him. But what took everyone's breath away and broke hearts just a little bit more was the unclaimed coffee that waited hot and steaming for someone who would never come for it. Every so often, a fresh cup would be brought to replace the cold one. No one questioned the sentiment, but looked for a chance to become a part of the ritual because coffee was comfort, coffee was love – coffee was him.
The elevator bell continued to announce new arrivals throughout the day. Some visitors were there on actual police business, but most of the time, the passenger's loaded three rows deep in the shallow box shared a singular and somber purpose. The captain's office having been their initial destination, Castle's chair was where each would end up wavering precariously on the ledge of emotion as they took in the impromptu sight before leaving behind of piece of themselves in memoriam.
A small band of 12th Precinct brothers and sisters seemed to hover near Ryan and Espo. No one knew what to say because there was nothing anyone could construct to make each excruciating moment any easier to absorb and endure.
Ryan was the first to speak, but his voice was tenuous and wavering, "Javi, what do we do now?"
His partner, usually quick with a saw-toothed retort just stared back at him with dark eyes reddened and swollen with cornered tears.
"I need some help with this one. I really do." Ryan's desolation pulled hard at Espo's stoic resolve.
"We find who did this," his voice was inflexible and barely audible.
Ryan nodded, "Yes, we find them, and we make sure they never get the chance to do this to someone else."
Javi's head shook left to right imperceptible to everyone else, "We take care of it."
"That's not how we do things," Ryan's mind was trying to find the rails he had suddenly been thrown from by those unexpected words.
"Okay, then," Espo looked wild-eyed, untamed, "It's how I do things."
Kevin's deeply ingrained morality caused him to balk and semi-choke on his partner's threat as he forced the man to look at him, "Castle wouldn't want this."
The military sniper that still lived within spoke his truth, "Castle doesn't want anything anymore."
Kevin was speechless. The elevator arrived again, and the room seemed to get smaller every time its doors opened and more people spewed into the already sardined space.
"What if it were me downstairs on that slab? What then?" The question was laid out there in front of the Irish Catholic schoolboy as if it were an oath to be taken on the bible itself.
Ryan's answer was notably quick and emphatic, "The same thing you would do if it were me." Kevin's skin had begun to flush with the heat generated by this new mutual purpose, and he could see the pulse in Espo's throat banging out its own heightened rhythm.
Javi's expression didn't waver while Kevin's hardened to match his partner's in resolve and intensity. Whoever had killed Castle – their friend, partner, and brother – his time as the hunter was over and whether he knew it or not, his days as prey were numbered.
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The warmth emanating from the mug was the only reason Kate Beckett could seize upon to explain why her hands were not trembling along with the rest of her body. Maybe it was how tightly she gripped the ceramic cup or possibly it was simply the hardness of it in her hands that allowed the absorption of the nervous energy that pulsed through her. Or maybe it was just the combination of sensations allowed her to focus momentarily on something other than the consummate physical paroxysms that were ripping her apart from the inside out as her new reality took up residence.
It was merely seconds before another question – the only one that really mattered – returned to plague her. Why had she done it? Chosen the chase over her marriage. She had long ago accepted that the years they spent dancing around one another had been lost to little more than a very base fear; having something you desperately desired and then losing it. Back then; losing him to a personal flaw or failure on her part had seemed the worst possible thing that could happen. She had no idea that there was something far more devastating. Death. He was gone. This too was her failure. She had never doubted her ability to keep him safe when they were working together. There had been an inexplicable symbiosis between them. Somehow he knew to zig when she zagged, and she knew to duck when he was there for cover. Her mistake, her miscalculation, had not been in dealing with the outside threats, but the one that came from within, from Castle himself. Kate had been so certain, so sure she knew him; his every action and reaction, but she had been wrong, and that mistake had demanded payment in the most extreme form imaginable.
Rita's words haunted her. She had tried to warn Beckett off LokSat. Even attempted to use her own dysfunctional marriage to Castle's father as an example of what not to do if you wanted to be happy and normal; a simple illustration of the almost inevitable denouement that awaited them if things didn't change drastically and imminently.
Always – she had meant it every time she said it. Even when she left him, she thought that somehow he would know that there was a really good reason for her actions. They had survived so many secrets. How was she to know that this one would be the last – their undoing?
Richard Castle, partner, best friend, her husband, was dead. She had thought about the possibility multiple times – lost sleep over it – but never planned for it. She knew there were steps – things to be done, but she couldn't do them. Reality's serrated edges grated against her exposed psyche allowing her soul to seep through the wounds. The walls he had torn down – they weren't just a pile of rubble, but had been reduced to fine grit that swirled around inside her clogging every corner of her being. It was as though she were standing naked facing head on into a torrential ferocious dust storm. The stinging pain keeping her consciousness aware and alert and in a chronic state of suffering.
Blame and guilt; she was enveloped in it. Castle had only gone with Henry Jenkins because of a belief that she had fostered in him; that their relationship was over. He had run out of faith – or patience – or both. The divorce papers proved that he had believed there was nothing left to lose except himself, and that is exactly what he'd done.
She finally got it. Understood them. Understood him. But it was too late. Their clock had run down to zero, and there was no story to be spun that could rewrite their ending because the storyteller was gone and with him the crazy imaginative genius to get them out of harms way one last time. It was with that realization that the mug slipped from her grasp and shattered into jagged shards at her feet. Frozen and staring into the mess she had made, Kate Beckett stopped fighting against the accusing, grasping tendrils of her grief.
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"You ready, Dad?" Alexis had stood quietly in the doorway for more than a minute waiting for her father to notice her.
Castle turned from the window of his hotel suite to face his daughter; his countenance lightening instantaneously at the sight of her. She was holding two coffees.
A quick flicker of something she didn't recognize invaded his visage, but was gone before he had crossed the room to greet her, "Is it time to go already?"
Handing him his cup then slipping her free hand under his arm she continued, "Your return from the dead is imminent."
His demeanor took on a kind of fog as he sipped absently of the warm morning brew, "As ready as I will ever be, I guess."
"This isn't going to be an easy day for you," she knew it was something that went without saying, but Alexis hoped it might get him talking. The whirlwind previous 24 hours had been filled with questions, explanations, and stories about the past and how they tied to the present. The young woman found out who her father really was before she came along and how he had changed his life's trajectory by 180 degrees to be her dad. Agency psychologists briefed her formally in an attempt to prepare for the possibility that he might not be exactly the father she remembered. Having chosen to allow all of his memories to remain intact, there was no doubt the impact would be profound and pervasive, but she didn't care. Her father was here. He was alive, and they were going home.
He continued smiling at her, but there was something behind his eyes. There was a remoteness she had not seen before; a part of the recently uncovered Rick Rogers, "Have you decided yet?"
He didn't speak immediately – another notable difference – but seemed to be weighing his words; "I should see Kate before the press conference. She doesn't deserve to find out like that."
Alexis wondered if she should be surprised that he knew exactly what was on her mind, but she wasn't. This dad was not just intuitive, but anticipatory and seemingly several steps ahead of the game. "I'm not sure I agree."
He reached up and brushed a stray band of hair back from his daughter's face, "That's anger talking, sweetheart."
Alexis shrugged admitting non-verbally that he was probably right, "How's that going to go?"
Three knuckled raps on the door broke the moment apart like the proverbial bell that had saved so many before him.
He drained the last of the coffee noting that it was completely cold, but forced it down anyway before dropping the disposable cup in the trashcan on the way to answer the door, "Hey, you think my resurrection might be enough to finally get me an interview with Oprah?"
Amused and gratified to see the man-child still lived inside this new version of her dad, Alexis and Castled laughed out loud and hoped for the best as they stepped into a reformatted future rife with unknowns, but promising a shared journey without any secrets or lies. That alone was something to embrace and they intended to do just that.
