How Many3?
There have been moments in Richard Castle's life when he has experienced true fear; times when his ability to rationalize and posture were nothing more than plastic toys when something more substantial was necessary.
He was walking away. Again. This time there was no girl on his arm pulling him toward hollow rewards. This time it was on him. This time he couldn't say it. He wouldn't say it. This time, he didn't even try.
As the elevator doors closed and his head touched the back wall, Rick sighed in resignation. How many more opportunities would have to tell her? How many more near death experiences would it take before he confessed true love? How many perfect moments would be squandered because he feared her response?
His sorrow was quickly turning to anger. He wanted to hit something, kick something; scream at the universe for his weakness.
He punched the elevator wall. It was a hearty, rage filled punch. But the only damage done was to his hand, which did nothing to soften his foul mood. He massaged his knuckles and remembered what it was like sitting with her, waiting to freeze to death. Even in the face of certain death, when he had heard her near confession, he didn't shake her violently and ask her to say it again. He didn't turn her to him and meet her lovely pale face and tell her himself. I love you, Kate!
Platitudes was all he could offer. 'Sorry I got you into this'.
Pathetic.
He wanted a drink; a stack of them, really; something to temper the self loathing coursing through his veins.
How many times would he ignore obvious signs that she returned his affections?
How many times would she ask him point blank: 'Why do you keep coming back?'
How many times would she confess: 'I wish that I had someone who could be there for me and I could be there for him and we could do it together.'
How many times would look at him expectantly, waiting for him to be the man?
How many men would he allow to enter her life as place holders before she decided to stick with one for good?
He felt like such a heel.
He needed to talk to someone. Who could he bare his soul to without fear of reprisal?
He thought to call Javier; to have him come over to The Old Haunt. Nah, too close.
He wanted to go home. Maybe his mother would understand. He could never really hide anything from her. But what good would it do? She would tell him she understood his feelings, but not his reluctance. She would tell him to 'Go for it, Kiddo!' and wonder why her encouragement wasn't enough.
Alexis knew how he felt about Beckett and would light up at the prospect, then wonder why her ever confident, charismatic father was acting like an introverted wallflower at the Prom.
No. He needed to talk to her. He needed to unburden himself. Not for selfish reasons, but because waiting another minute would be an opportunity for the wrong man to burrow into her heart.