Hidden Wounds: Chapter 2
Castle knew Kate would follow him into his apartment. He knew how determined and strong-willed she could be, and he knew she would not let it go.
He walked straight from the door to his bar, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. He poured the amber liquid into a glass and swiftly knocked it back, before pouring another.
"Would you like a drink?" He asked her.
"Sure." Castle pulled out another glass and poured her a whiskey. When he looked up she was standing halfway between the living room and the kitchen, watching him uncertainly. He walked to her and handed her the glass, and then went and sat on the couch, taking a slow pull on his own drink.
The whiskey was starting to warm his veins, and his frazzled nerves began to relax. But not enough. He felt raw, drained.
He watched as Kate walked over to where he was sitting. He wanted to touch her so badly, to assure himself that she was alive and warm and to feel her heart beating, but that wasn't part of the role he was allowed to play. If he wanted to keep his part in their little drama then he must be the perfect actor.
He watched her contemplate where to sit and what to do with herself. She finally settled on sitting on the couch, next to him but slightly apart, making sure, he felt, not to touch him. He tried not to sigh and took another drink to dull the ache that her nearness caused.
"So." She said.
Castle looked at her. He had been filling awkward silences for almost four years now. He decided it was her turn.
When it became obvious he wasn't going to speak, Kate continued.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Kate asked.
"No." Castle said, and took another slow drink. He swirled the liquid in his glass, knowing he was being petulant and rude, but not able to stop. The day's events had uncovered wounds that had never healed, wounds she didn't even know existed. Wounds he had hidden to protect her. Always to protect her. Even if she didn't want him to.
Even if she didn't want him.
"Castle, you were having a panic attack. I know what that looks like. I know the symptoms."
Castle kept staring at the glass.
Kate was frustrated. Her normally overly verbose writer wouldn't talk to her. He wouldn't even look at her. When she mentioned the panic attack, she was sure he would crack – was sure he would talk to her – but he just stared at his whiskey glass.
"Castle, you have to talk to me." He closed his eyes. She thought that perhaps she was getting closer.
"Rick…please?"
Suddenly he stood up, letting out an exasperated breath.
"Please?" He said, turning on her. "Please? Please what, Kate? What do you really want from me tonight? Because I know for a fact that you don't really want to know what's going on with me. That would require talking about our relationship. It would require talking about…things you don't want to discuss. Or admit. Or even recognize."
Kate was astounded. His words were angry, brutal, but his eyes were…pained…hurt.
"Rick…"
"No, Kate. I'm going to bed." Castle knocked back the remaining portion of his drink and headed toward his bedroom. He paused for a moment and half turned toward her.
"Please lock the door behind you." With that he was through the door and gone.
Kate let out the breath she didn't even know she was holding. "Castle…" she breathed. His outburst had shocked her. She stared at the loft, looking at the bookshelves and furniture eerily reflected by the low light. She leaned back on the couch, thinking about everything that had happened today.
She had to admit to herself that she knew what was going on. She had never really allowed herself to think about Castle's reaction to her shooting. She knew it had been hard – profoundly difficult – for him. But with all of her own emotional scarring and struggles to recover, she had never thought that perhaps Castle had his own PTSD to work through.
Kate upended her own whiskey glass, and set the glass on the coffee table. His dismissal had hurt, and in a brief flash of anger after his comment about locking the door she had thought about fleeing.
She wondered if she had pushed him too far. She herself had often begged him for space, pushed him away, and refused to talk about the terror of the summer's events. And Castle had always backed off, always allowed her that space, never pushed.
Kate knew he was trying to protect her. As she thought about it, Kate suddenly saw these actions in a new light. Castle was also struggling with the molten core of pain and terror that surrounded those events. Perhaps he was just as terrified of confronting that pain as she was.
She stared at Castle's door, and knew she was not going to leave him tonight.
Kate stretched out on the couch. Lying there in the darkness of Castle's loft, Kate forced herself to see the summer's horrific events through Castle's eyes.
Castle sagged on the edge of his bed, realizing that he had probably just made a huge mistake. He rolled onto his bed and stared at the wall, reliving the events that often kept him awake at night.
The glimpse of something shiny in the cemetery. The realization that it was a weapon. The slow motion dive to try to get to Kate. Her surprised gasp as the bullet entered her chest. Her gasping breaths, full of pain. His desperate attempts to hold onto her, to put pressure on the wound, to stop the life from leaving her. The confession, wrenched from his soul. Losing her in the ambulance. And then gaining her back only to lose her again.
Castle felt himself begin to shake again and forced his mind away from those images.
The summer had been agony. Her absence meant that he had nothing with which to soothe the panic and the pain. He knew she was alive, but couldn't verify it. The nightmares got worse.
And then he was allowed back into her world, back into her life. And he knew that she had heard him. That she knew. That she had purposefully pushed him away. And so he pretended. He played the old role. He played "Castle," the writer monkey, the silly friend with the crazy theories.
He held on to her as tightly as he could by pretending to be fine, by being her rock, by not letting her know that he himself was crumbling inside. He let her get away with hiding from him, because he was afraid of her reaction to his own hidden pain.
And tonight the nightmares, the panic that he managed to keep carefully hidden, had come crashing down on him with the man who had shot at Beckett.
The scene had been like a sick instant replay of Montgomery's funeral. Even as she struggled up and grabbed her gun to go after the guy he felt he was trapped in a world where she was bleeding in his arms. He was certain he had lost her.
Castle ran a hand through his hair and let out a frustrated breath. He knew she felt broken. If she had any idea how broken he was she would run so fast he would never catch her.
He just needed a bit of space. A bit of time. If she would have just gone home he could have adjusted, regained his equilibrium. Now he had in all probability driven her further away. He would have to begin building again, begin to rebuild her trust in him.
He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned quietly as he replayed his words. The outburst had been unintentional, but her quiet pleas had pierced his soul and his defenses were down. He had needed to get out of there, to cut off the conversation and escape before he broke down right in front of her.
Castle chuckled to himself derisively. She thought she had walls. He had built some solid defenses around his own wounds over the summer, and they were currently in shambles around his feet. He needed time to rebuild those walls, hiding the cracks in his composure, time to make himself strong again and be the rock she needed.
Tomorrow he would have to try and repair the damage he had done tonight. If she would let him.
It was going to be a restless night.
Castle tossed and turned most of the night, and finally got a few hours of fitful sleep before he gave up and decided to begin the day and face the consequences of his actions.
He pondered how to approach Beckett. He would head to the precinct. With coffee. Maybe he could get away with pretending like nothing had happened… they did that all the time, right?
Castle sighed. He was pretty sure that was not going to work this time.
Stepping heavily into the living room he headed to the kitchen to make coffee. As he grabbed the carafe he noticed shoes sitting next to the couch. Heels. High heels. Very high heels.
Castle quietly walked to the edge of the living room. He almost dropped the carafe. There was Kate, sprawled out and very much asleep on his couch, her hair spread out behind her and her arm dangling over the side. He had been certain she would leave, and he couldn't believe she had stayed after his outburst last night.
Castle stood there watching her for a long moment. She was sleeping, but not relaxed. He could see the worry lines etched on her face, and her jaw seemed to be clenched.
Castle walked over to her and kneeled down by her side. Slowly, so slowly, he reached out and drew his fingers along her jawline.
Kate sighed in her sleep and her jaw relaxed. Castle traced the lines on her face and watched the tension slowly melt away. She was so beautiful. As he caressed her cheek she leaned into his hand and rolled towards him, letting out a small noise of contentment.
Castle quickly removed his hand and backed away, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He was getting in too deep. What if she had woken up? She would kill him.
And yet he couldn't help the feeling of happiness that began to bubble up inside when she turned into his caress.
Castle shook his head. He needed to get his head out of the clouds. Beckett was going to wake up soon and he needed a plan.
Well, at least he needed breakfast. And coffee.
The morning was about to become interesting.
Thank you all for your kind words and support. Since this is my first published fanfic I didn't know what to expect, and I am absolutely thrilled that anyone thought it was worth reading. More to come...
Best, AD