She spends the night tossing and turning, her body unrelenting in its insistence that she not sleep, that if she doesn't sleep the morning won't come. And when the morning does come, rolls in with the sun and the chirping of birds, she peels her bleary eyes open. Stretching her legs out, curling her toes into the mattress, she lets out a sigh and covers her face with her hands.
When she finally pulls herself into a sitting position, she stays there, staring at nothing in particular.
It's January 9th.
Pushing away the urge to curl herself back into her blankets, she instead swings her legs from the bed and pads into the kitchen. She makes herself a cup of coffee and sits quietly at the kitchen table, lets the warmth of the mug thaw her chilled fingers.
She'll get dressed, go to the cemetery, and then come back to her apartment and slouch into the corner of her couch to watch a few hours of mindless television.
If the holidays are bad, the anniversary of her mother's death is considerably worse. At least the holidays can be equated with something else; new memories, the jolly merriment in the Castle household, caroling, the looks of pure joy on strangers' faces when you pass them on the snowy streets. She can slowly re-acclimate herself with the holiday season and step into it like the shallow end of a pool. Test the waters a bit.
But today's different. It'll always be associated with the death of her mother, with horrible flashbacks of detectives greeting them on their own doorstep. That can't be erased, and no matter what else happens on this day it'll always be the day her mother died.
There's something about the day itself that stirs something inside of her. She misses her mom every day of the year, but on the anniversary it's as though everything's heightened. The pain claws its way back to the forefront from where it's been buried just beneath the surface for 364 days.
She's been told that each year it'll get better. The wound won't be as fresh, the pain won't be as visceral, the tightness in her chest will fade to a dull throbbing. Three years isn't long enough for any of the so-called dulling effects to take place, she's realized.
Even still, she's trying. Trying to remember the happier times instead of a night full of heartbreak.
She's tackled her first real Christmas after her mom, her first New Year's that didn't involve getting blackout drunk. Maybe this'll be the first anniversary of her mother's death that doesn't break her down.
Dragging herself back into her bedroom, she gets dressed on autopilot, throwing on some jeans and a royal purple sweater. Her hair's in its natural state, wild curls framing her face, but she just slides a white beanie with a pom pom on the end over it and calls it a day. She doesn't have the energy to actually do anything with it right now.
She grabs her jacket from the hook, makes sure she has her keys, and closes the door behind her.
Kate stops at a flower shop on the way, buys a bouquet of the flowers her mother loved best, and then continues quietly through the city. The route, though she only travels it once a year at best, is etched into her mind. Her legs carry her the distance and don't require much active thought on her end; she spends the majority of the walk ignoring the cheery looks of passerbys.
The streets are covered in snow, lights on the street lamps lit but hard to see in the daylight.
At the cemetery, she offers halfhearted smiles to those who pass, also visiting the graves of loved ones. Her mother's grave is the same as it was when she left it last year, if not a little worn down by the wind and sticks crashing into it throughout the winter. Brushing the snow off of the top, she takes a deep breath.
She bends down and delicately places the flowers on top of the snow-covered dirt. Her fingers reach out and dust across the etching of her name, palm pressed to the stone for a few moments before she stands.
"Hi, Mom," she says quietly, wringing her hands in front of her. "I should—I should visit more often, I know. I'm sorry. It's just... coming here is hard."
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she takes a deep breath.
"A lot's happened since my last visit. I uh, I told you about Rick last year, but we were just friends. Good friends, but friends," she says. She can practically see her mother's eye roll, hear the good-natured spit it out, Katie. "We're dating now. Have been for a few months. He's... he's good for me, Mom. I know you loved his books, but the man is even more wonderful than the author. I don't know if I'm so good for him, but I'm trying to be."
Johanna's tutting at her from beyond the grave, she knows it. You're selling yourself short, dear.
She lets out a watery chuckle. "I know," she breathes, answering the voice only she can hear. "You don't know, Mom. How I dealt with your death, how I paid for dad's rehab. But Rick, he helped. Alexis too—his daughter. She's an old soul, that one. You'd love her."
And she doesn't tell her, doesn't want to bring that back up. Kate figures if there really is a heaven then she already knows, has been watching. At least if she knows, she also knows she's quit, no longer in that space.
"Dad's out of rehab, by the way," she continues, nodding to herself. Her tongue darts out, wets her lips. "He's doing really well. We both are, actually. So I don't—I don't want you to worry about us, okay?"
Silent tears falling onto her cheeks, Kate sniffles, swipes at them with the back of her hand.
"I miss you, so much. I could really use your advice on a lot of things." Kate sighs, shoves her hands into her pockets. "I love you, Mom."
With a quiet I'll see you next year, Kate turns on her heels.
The longer she sits in the quiet of her apartment, the more her thoughts wander, reminding her of all of the things she wants so desperately to forget. She tried keeping herself busy, even put the television's volume on high for some background noise, but turns out it's still all Christmas movies and family togetherness, and so she turned it off almost as quickly as she turned it on.
Funnily enough, because of her slow progression into the holiday season, she almost thought today would be... not easier, but perhaps more bearable. Turns out this can't be fixed with some excitement and hot chocolate.
Castle doesn't know what today is; he knows about her mom, of course, has from the beginning, but he never asked the date and she never offered it up. That's not a burden he or Alexis need to carry. She's never fun today, and neither of them need that. All they need to do is continue on with their holiday joy, and she'll return to her new, mildly festive self tomorrow.
She thinks what hurts the most is cataloging everything her mom's missed and will miss. Her college graduation, of course. Johanna was so thrilled when Kate enrolled in Stanford, showed her support by sporting an entire outfit of Stanford gear for her first visit home. It was almost embarrassing at the time, but she looks back on that break fondly now, walking into the house to find her in Stanford sweats and a sweater, a proud grin on her face.
Not having her there to watch her walk across the stage, even though it was a different one than she'd intended, was painful.
She won't be around to see her get married or have kids of her own, if that's even in the cards for her. And if they are, she won't have her mom to go to for advice or talk things through with.
And her relationship with Rick...
Her mom would love Rick. She already loved his books, his words, had a crush on him even, but she would absolutely love him as her daughter's boyfriend. Like she'd said at the cemetery, he's good for her. Too good, maybe. She'd love Alexis too, dote on her and pinch those rosy cheeks.
She covers her mouth with her palm when a sob breaks free, tears obscuring her vision.
Throwing the blanket from her body, she walks hurriedly into the kitchen. She can't keep doing this, can't keep sitting alone with her thoughts, and so she reaches into her cabinet and pulls out a bottle of vodka.
It's been in her apartment for a while; she's not a huge drinker, but she does have a few bottles of varying alcohols for special occasions, and occasions like this. When she just wants to forget, to focus on anything but thoughts of the parent she's lost.
She doesn't break them out often, can count the number of times in the past year on one hand, but sometimes it's what she needs.
Unscrewing the top, she pours the liquid into a shot glass and downs it without a second thought. The burn continues on the way down, scorching her throat in a way that shouldn't be as calming as it is. She pours another one, does the same.
Sometimes she's more like her father than she likes to admit.
Eventually, she just takes the bottle with her back into the living room, forgets the glass all together. Perhaps it's more sad drinking by herself, straight from the bottle, but at least it's doing what she needs it to. Soon enough, she feels the familiar buzz as her head becomes foggy.
Good.
He's been trying to get a hold of her all day, but he's managed to get nothing but endless ringing and then her voicemail. At first he assumed she was at work; he knows she doesn't check her phone when she's working a shift, but then he'd called and Anna told him Kate called out late last night.
It's not like her to call off, he knows, because she hates doing it. She's said as much a while back. He remembers because she had a horrible cold, felt awful, but she refused to call out because she knew Anna was short-staffed that day. He feels confident in saying that she wouldn't have called off even if they weren't in need of help.
So if she is sick, it has to be something pretty bad to warrant ditching work. Which makes him nervous, concern creeping in, especially since he hasn't heard from her.
Normally they'll call each other in the morning, even if for a few minutes, and talk at some point during the day. But today it's been nothing: radio silence.
Maybe she's sleeping it off?
But she's stubborn, and he worries if she's truly sick she won't take herself to a doctor, or at the very least a pharmacy to get some medication. If it's something worse than a cold, she really should get some. And some fluids.
He could just bring over some soup and cold medicine, couldn't he?
Thoughts of Kate, immobile and ill in her bed, unable to get up flow through his mind and solidify his decision. He's going to check on her; if she's not sick then something's wrong, and he needs to make sure she's, one way or another, okay.
Grabbing soup from his cabinet, he prepares it before putting some into a container to bring with him.
When he tries to call her one last time and gets no response, he moves just a little quicker through the hallway.
Stepping off of the elevator on her floor, Rick clutches the container of soup to his chest. His normal pace turns into a brisk run when the sound of smashing glass resounds through the hallway, and he nearly drops the soup in his haste to make it to Kate's door.
He pauses for a minute, heart beating out of his chest. When the distinct sound of crunching glass meets his ears, he bangs on the door.
"Kate?" he calls. There's a hushed groan in response and every nerve-ending in his body is on edge. "Kate!"
Turning the doorknob, he's a little shocked and a lot concerned to find it unlocked. He pushes the door open and steps inside, almost wary of what he'll find. And for good reason, it seems.
He drops the soup almost harshly against the counter and rushes over to where Kate's seated on the kitchen floor, broken glass from what appears to be a vodka bottle surrounding her, her legs pulled up to her chest.
"Kate," he breathes, hands on her face as he tries to get her to look at him. She's crying, eyes red and cheeks stained with tears. "Hey, what happened? Are you okay? Kate. Is someone else here?"
It doesn't look like it, but her door's unlocked—and he's noticed that's unusual for her—and she's sitting in a pile of glass.
Bleary eyes look up, unfocused as she sniffles. "Rick?"
The second she opens her mouth he can smell the vodka on her breath. "Yeah," he says, eyes trailing over her body, looking for any injuries. Gently grabbing at her left wrist, he sighs. "You're bleeding."
She doesn't respond much, just looks down at her wrist with a wince.
"Come on. Can you stand for me?" he asks, moving to stand himself, still grasping her wrist. She gives a disjointed nod and he watches as she tries to push off of the floor. She's unsteady on her feet and he takes the brunt of her weight, but at least he gets her upright. "Don't move."
It's almost comical how quickly she freezes, and he'd probably laugh under different circumstances.
She doesn't have any shoes on, and the last thing he needs is for her to get glass in her foot. Instead, he lifts her in his arms and carries her into the living room, sits her on the couch.
"Stay here, okay?"
He gets something of an acknowledgement and so he leaves in search of a first aid kid or some band-aids at least. Luckily she has a kit in the linen closet, so he finds it rather quickly and doesn't have to leave her for too long.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he says quietly, crouching down in front of her. She lets him take her wrist and he cleans and bandages it as carefully as he can, focusing on getting it done and not the wince of pain she gives him when the antiseptic is put on.
When she's all settled, he makes his way back into the kitchen and sweeps up the glass, tossing it into the trash. He makes a mental note that the bottle was empty, so either she's accidentally dropped an already-empty bottle or she finished it tonight. Judging by her breath, he'd say it's the latter.
She's curled herself into the corner of the couch by the time he returns and he sighs, takes a seat beside her.
"Hey," he breathes, his voice low. "Kate."
Thankfully she's responsive and she turns at the sound of his voice, eyes on him. They're significantly clearer than they were before; he supposes the events of the past twenty minutes have sobered her up some, but she still doesn't seem completely with it.
"Rick."
Her lip trembles and he scoots closer, presses a hand to her knee. "Hey, no, what's wrong? What happened?"
"Nothing."
"You're drunk."
Kate turns her head, looks at the far wall. "I'm not drunk."
"Then you're tipsy."
She shrugs. "Wanted to forget for a little bit."
"Forget what?" he asks, almost afraid of the answer. "You were fine yesterday, Kate. Did something happen? Did someone—hurt you?"
"Yes." His heart nearly catapults from his chest, fists balling at his sides before she shakes her head. "No. No one..."
Now he's confused.
"I don't think I understand."
"My mom died, Rick."
"I know," he says, still not understanding. Until he does. Shit. "Is today... is today the anniversary?" At her nod, he moves closer, wraps an arm around her shoulder. "Shit, Kate, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
She sniffles. "Weren't s'posed to."
"Why not?"
"Not your burden," she says, her bottom lip trembling some more until fresh tears fall from her eyes.
Seeing her like this has his chest tightening.
Rick sighs. "I'd rather you tell me so I can be with you, Kate. You shouldn't be alone today." He almost tacks on a clearly, but doesn't. Everyone copes differently, and he'll discuss his concerns over her chosen method another time. "Is your dad okay?"
He releases a relieved breath when she nods. "Fishing with buddies, to keep occupied."
Pulling gently, he curls her into his chest, runs his hand through her hair. "We're partners, you know. In more ways than one. I want you to be able to call me on days like these, so things like this don't happen. I thought something had happened."
"'m sorry," she mumbles, wiping at her eyes. "You should go home. Alexis."
"She's with my mother, something about a girl's day. No dads allowed."
He doesn't get much else than a small hum of acknowledgement, but she burrows deeper into his embrace, fists his shirt in her hands. Her knuckles are almost white, her grip so tight, and he runs his fingers in calming circles over them.
"Rick?" He hums. "I miss her."
And then she's crying in his arms, her shoulders shaking against him as he tries to pull her as close as he possibly can. He wraps both arms around her, cocoons her in a hug. His chin rests on the crown of her head and he runs his palm up and down her back, tries to soothe the sobs wracking her body.
His heart breaks for her, still far too young to have to deal with this kind of pain.
"I know," he whispers into her hair. "I know you do. But she's so proud of you, you know that? So proud."
"She'd love you."
"Who doesn't love me?"
She snorts, watery and uneven but he'll take it. It's what he was going for. "She loved you before I did." His heart stutters and he freezes. She must notice, because she pulls back slightly, skin red and blotchy from the tears, and gives a crooked smile. "Oh yeah. I love you."
Tipsy Kate is surely something else; he just hopes sober Kate feels the same way. Though he has a feeling she does.
"I love you, too," he promises, some tension in his shoulders seeping away as she relaxes back into his body. "Please let me in next time. I don't want to have to find you drunk and passed out, okay?"
"Again, not drunk. And I didn't pass out."
She was very clearly on her way to being blackout drunk, and if he hadn't come when he did he's sure she would have found another bottle and finished what she started. But he's not going to argue with her right now, not when she's hurting and for good reason.
"Please," he says instead.
"Okay."
A few moments of silence pass, Rick rubbing calming circles on her back as the tears slow down, crying reduced to the occasional hiccup. It's a comfortable silence, the only sounds filling the room their collective breathing.
"Will you tell me about her? Not right now, but maybe soon, when you feel up to it."
He feels a nod against his chest a minute later. "Yeah."
When he's sure her breathing has evened out, her hand still fisted in the fabric of his sweater, he stands, hoists her into his arms as carefully as he can without waking her up. Following the path he's traveled a few times before, he takes her into her bedroom and deposits her onto the mattress. He pulls the comforter over her body and hovers for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her chest.
"Thank you," he hears, the tiniest of whispers.
His lips curl at the corners before he bends down, presses a kiss to her forehead. Moving into her bathroom, he grabs a small bucket and puts it on her side of the bed just in case. Turning out the light, he crawls into the other side, content to sit with her as long as he needs to know she'll be okay.
"Goodnight, Kate."
A/N: [Insert usual apologies about the wait here]. As always, thank you all so much.