A/N: Yes, more angst. Deal with it. This time, I'm exploring Rick's post-the-trauma-of-chapter-2-feelings.
Disclaimer: Castle is not mine, but the suffocating level of angst is.
Chapter 4 – Bitter Boy
Richard Castle does not scream or throw things (well, mostly he doesn't) or breaks down when he's hurting.
He grows quiet. He shuts off. He brews. He licks his wounds. He tries to stop feeling. And right now, he's numb.
Everything is meaningless.
Everything is dull.
Everything is lifeless.
His usually attentive writer's mind does not appreciate the beauty in the ordinary, does not soak up the details of life, does not see the potential stories of the people around him.
He doesn't care anymore. He's shrugging indifferently at life.
He feels like he's in the twilight zone, that he dreamt her rejection of a few hours before.
We were never meant to be.
He closes his eyes and swallows thickly. The words cut through him. Did she really mean that? Did she really feel nothing, absolutely nothing? Did she really just do that to them?
He opens his eyes and clenches his jaw. Yes... yes, she did. He was convinced of that; he was not going to hope any longer. It was because of his stupid hope and stupid optimism that he was drowning right now. Wallowing in what could have been. Struggling against the flames of despair.
He turns his attention back to the screen in front of him.
The blinking cursor is mocking him. Haunting him. Reminding him of... her.
He stares at the blank page. The dedication page of the third (and now last) Nikki Heat novel (he would call Gina tomorrow). He could write and thank the cruel bitch for ripping him to pieces. For making it impossible to trust anyone again. For crushing his heart. For shattering them.
But he doesn't. He doesn't even mention her. He can't bear to.
He sighs, rubs a hand roughly over his face and quickly shuts his laptop. He's tired of writing. Tired of Nikki Heat and Jameson Rook. Tired of her.
Right now, he's only interested in one thing: to clean out his liquor cabinet and get horrendously drunk. Yeah, that may be cliché and oh-so-tortured writer, but it will do. He just needs to forget, just for a few hours. He actually craves the nausea and the blinding heahache - maybe that will keep his godforsaken mind off of her!
But he knows that it would not be enough.
'I should have stopped that kiss,' he thinks ruefully about the point of ignition that had started this whole mess as he pulls out his finest bottle of whiskey.
However, his memory reminds him, it was a kiss that she initiated. A kiss that she had deepened. A kiss where she had ended up on top of him on that godforsaken couch in that godforsaken hotel room. After that, there was no stopping, there was no turning back. When they stumbled into his bedroom, they had reached a point of no return. When he lowered her unto the bed, they had reached a point of no return. When she moaned in pleasure under his touch, they had crossed that point of no return.
He can't go back now or ever. Even if she wanted to. He refuses to.
We were never meant to be.
He can't regret moving inside of her, of worshipping her with his body, of loving her with his soul.
He can't regret any of it.
And that infuriates him. Why should he regret it? Why should they regret it? Why was it a 'mistake'? They fit, they worked, they were sides of the same coin. Ying and Yang. Castle and Beckett. Rick and Kate.
We were never meant to be.
Bullshit! His mind screams, anger seeping into his being. How can she be that blind? Damn it! Everything shouted at her that they were meant to be. The Universe has given them ample signs - the freezer, the bomb, the countless times they've had near-death experiences. What more does she need as evidence? What else should he do to try and convice her?
I love you.
He's never said those words lightly and when he did say them, he meant them. He did tonight. He's never meant them more than tonight. He was never as sure of what he felt than tonight. He needed to prove to her that he wanted more. That he wanted everything. He didn't care that she was closed off and difficult to get to know. He didn't care about the shadows that lurked inside of her. He didn't care about how scared she was. It wouldn't matter to him.
He loves her.
We were never meant to be.
Thinking about her reaction to his words, however, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that has nothing to do with the whiskey burning down his throat. He had always thought, being a romantic, that people had a certain reverence for those three words when spoken in earnest. That conviction was turned on its head tonight, though.
She brushed it off.
She pushed it aside.
She threw it back in his face.
It was done with a level of callousness that shocked him. He didn't like that Kate. Cold, Callous Kate. He really didn't like her.
But even the Cold, Callous Kate he loved.
He loved all of her.
I love you.
His own words taunted him. Tortured him. Reminded him of his foolishness. Of her cowardice. And it angers him. Pisses him off. Infuriates him to the point of screaming at the top of his lungs. What else is he suppose-
No.
He violently throws the last lick of his third glass of whiskey down his throat, winces and forcefully stands up.
No. No. No.
He's done. She doesn't want him. She doesn't feel anything. She used him. The sudden realisation sends a bolt of disbelief and a rush of rage through him. Before he knows it, a glass lies shattered into hundreds of pieces on the floor at the other end of the room. He's breathing hard and his eyes are stinging, burning, swimming.
He's hurting. Badly. And she's probably off screwing Dr. Motorcycle Boy right now. Jealousy, fury, anguish and a good doze of despair rip through him and before he knows it, one of his glass cabinets is shattered, hundreds of pieces of glass lie on the ground. A few small shards, however, are stuck in the flesh of his knuckles. His head is throbbing, his hand is pounding and his heart is aching painfully. Blood trickles down his hand in a steady stream, staining everything it lands on.
He wraps his bloody hand in a dish towel while listening to the ringing at the other end of the line with the phone lodged in between his ear and neck.
He's done. He's done chasing her. He's walking away, cutting his losses. He might be maimed, he might be scarred, but he's determined to survive.
Even if surviving meant getting away from her.
"Paula? It's me..." He lets out a laboured sigh. "Yeah, sorry I know it's late, but it's important... Can you come over tomorrow as early as possible?... I want to discuss some tour dates."
A/N: Okay, so this chapter is quite similar to the last one as you probably could deduce. I liked writing this, exploring Rick's feelings.
Please review and tell me what you think.
Thanks for reading!
I apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes.