I have an essay to write. Instead, this happened. Fic-writing procrastination has hit me with a vengeance this weekend.
This is a jump back in time, by the way. The chronology of this series has been disrupted and it'll just be snippets in time, now.
Hope you like it!
(P.S. I made a Twitter today, and I have five followers. Which is, you know. Super exciting. But I wouldn't object to a few more: ' _sfv'. Thanks!)
He's returning from a long day of meetings when he finds her, slumped heavily against his door, head seeking solace in the palms of her hands as she cradles it against her knees.
"Beckett?" And then he kicks himself for forgetting, like he still does sometimes, kneels in front of her - hesitant to touch but his body leaning towards her of its own accord; the urge to squeeze her tight and never let go almost too much to resist.
A pitiful breath of a sound floats to him from her huddled form, soft and sighing and shattered. His gaze traces the skin of her hands - black mascara stains smudging the delicate porcelain. His throat twists, clogging uncomfortably and suddenly he doesn't think he could speak even if it could do any good. If she could hear him. So he stays perched in front of her, close enough that he's sure she can feel his breath against her hair as he hovers. Not making contact but desperately aching to.
"Hi, Castle." It's been a few minutes, by the time she addresses him, and his knees ache in spite of the cushioning the plush carpet of his hall provides. The weak shudder of her voice shreds the part of him that's holding back and he gives in, wraps his arms around her.
She doesn't push him away. Instead her hands grasp at his collar, face finding comfort in the junction between his throat and cheek. Burning hot tears spill against his skin yet do not scald - rather they settle like sleet, chill him to the bone.
He finds himself humming soothingly, as though he were comforting a baby Alexis and although she can't hear, she responds, pressing closer to his throat as if soaking every tiny vibration that oscillates through it. She's shaking, shoulders racked with sobs every few seconds and it kills him, this - to see her so vulnerable and know he is to blame.
It's been a few days since he saw her last - a rarity for them lately. It's not often he goes forty eight hours without seeing her. But she'd asked for space, and he'd given it to her. Would give her anything should she say the word.
He knows what this is about. Five days ago she showed up here and told him she was going to resign from the NYPD. Let him tuck her against his chest as she released a single, silent tear - and then left, promising she'd call when she wanted to talk. Said she needed a few days alone.
And - oh God. He'd had his phone off in meetings all day. He reaches into his back pocket, cautious not to dislodge her from his chest and shit. Six missed calls. One text, from three hours ago.
He opens it, heart in his throat, spilling the bitter taste of sorrow onto his tongue as he reads it.
I need you
She'd needed him. And he hadn't been there.
Guilt pounds through his veins to a harsh, unrelenting rhythm. Flushes his skin with shame and pools in his tear ducts. His cell clatters to the floor and crushes her to him, fat drops of salt water racing down the strong slope of his nose and into her curls, in disarray from her hands running through them too many times. He's just-
"So sorry, Kate. I'm so sorry," is his mantra, whispered over and over into the silk of her hair. He can't help it, even if the words are lost on her. "So sorry."
"Not your fault, Castle." She objects quietly. (He doesn't know how she knows what he was saying, how she interpreted the hot puffs of air at her scalp, but he's not surprised. She always does). She says it firmly, though the words are muffled against his throat. The delicious movement of her lips on his skin has him swallowing hard and hell if it doesn't make him feel worse. He pushes away the burning threads of arousal that threaten to spin a web around his self control and hide it away until he breaks, crushing his lips to hers and tasting the salt of tears dried in the cracks of the precious red flesh. Shoves it down so he can be the friend she needs right now. Just shakes his disagreement with her insistence with his head, chin bumping softly against her crown.
She pulls back, grasps his face in her palms. Thumbs scraping gently over his stubble, she regards him like he's something precious.
He wishes he could deserve the look in her eyes.
"You know I don't blame you, right? Not your fault, Rick."
He nods dumbly, unable to speak. Tongue tied as he realises in horror that he's made the situation about him. She's comforting him.
It's all he needs to force the chalky dust of self-loathing back down into the darkest parts of himself to join the rest of the remorseful sediment building there. A bone-deep ache that he's used to, rather than the acidic sting.
You wanna come in? He signs carefully, tightly controlled to moderate the tremble he can feel threatening to come alive in his hands.
A slow dip of her head in agreement, and he pulls her to her feet. Opens the door, makes sure she's settled on the couch.
And then he makes her coffee.
She accepts it with an almost smile, fingers brushing his in thanks. Shuts her eyes as she breathes in its aroma, lets it soothe her ragged edges.
She's beautiful, he thinks as she visibly softens, tense angles of her body melting into his sofa. Into him, as she pulls him down next to her. He tells her so. Says it out loud and lets the fearful truth find solace in the knowledge that silence is all she now knows.
It's a while after, when her coffee is finished and she's spent long minutes analysing the golden dregs that she speaks.
"I did the right thing - didn't I, Castle? The right thing."
It's new, this Kate Beckett who seeks his approval. The need in her tone cracks his vulnerable places and his soul bleeds for her-
-she's not been reduced by her ordeal, not by any means. But she's questioning herself, feels like she's lacking - like she isn't... everything.
Which she is.
Everything.
His head bobs, up then down - again and again and again. Anything to reassure her.
Where their legs tentatively brush, her hand comes to rest. Covering it with his own, he interlaces their knuckles; observes the ridges and valleys. The ups and downs.
She'll get through this.
She'll see what she's worth - he'll show her.