A/N: HUGE thank you to dtrekker for the amazing cover art! This chapter is dedicated to BerkieLynn (go read her Ficathon story, too!) who took the time to talk me out of a hole, and to The-KLF, who offered to help, too. You Twitter crowd are the bestest ever!
He woke with a pounding headache, his entire body feeling thick and heavy.
At first he couldn't remember why.
It was only when he tried to bury deeper into his pillow and felt an unusual lump under his chest that he remembered he had fallen asleep hugging Kate's pillow.
He was hugging Kate's pillow because he and Kate were no longer together.
There would be no "good morning" kisses over coffee, no smile at the precinct. No cheerful greeting to the boys or any of his other acquaintances there, either. He wouldn't be welcome back. Not that he could face her and keep his dignity. In his current frame of mind he would end up on his knees by her desk, begging and pleading for her to take him back.
To be honest, though, he didn't care much for his dignity. But he knew her, knew she would be embarrassed by the scene. God knows he has caused her more than enough embarrassment in their time together. He knows how much she hates the spotlight, despises the gossip mill at the precinct. The whispers and looks she would be on the receiving end of would be bad enough once people noticed he wasn't coming in any more.
He rolled onto his back, stared up at the ceiling. The weight of the previous day pressed down on him, sinking him further into the mattress. There was no point in getting out of bed, he realized. He had nothing to get out of bed for. He had thought of his days down at the precinct as his work for so long now, the idea of days and weeks and months stretching ahead of him without it was almost unthinkable. He felt like he would truly grieve for his time there, if he had any grief to spare.
He didn't.
He'd lost Kate.
Rolling his head to the side, he spotted his phone on his night stand. He reached for it, hating himself for hoping there might be something from her. His heart plummeted all over again when he saw that there was nothing.
Maybe he should call her? They'd had fights before, and the make-up sex had been downright fantastic. But the fights hadn't been like this one.
This one had felt final.
Send her a text message, maybe? Ooh, or an email? He would have as high a word count as he desired if he emailed her.
Problem was, she could just as easily delete it when she received it.
He dropped the phone back on the bedside table. Rolling onto his side, he lay there, unwilling to get up or move or do anything. What could he do? There was nothing. There was no getting her back. Once Kate Beckett's mind was made up, there was no changing it. And it wasn't like the other times he'd been kicked out of the precinct. He couldn't go back, weasel his way back in again. Not this time. Hell, he couldn't even do what he'd done when he'd thought she had lied to him, and keep coming to the precinct for the victims, for the good of the work. Not this time.
He was in far too deep to attempt the "love is a switch" thing. Been there, failed at that, too.
Just like he'd failed her.
Even if he tried laying it all out for her, bought her a ring and spoke of forever- it was too late now. She would never accept it, would never truly believe that he hadn't just given her his words out of desperation, even if he meant every one of them to his last and final breath.
He had failed them.
Save short trips to the bathroom and occasionally grabbing something to eat or drink when his stomach could no longer be ignored- it all tasted like cardboard, anyway- he stayed in bed that day, eventually falling asleep again.
There was nothing else to do.
"Richard?"
In spite of thousands of dollars spent on sound proofing the apartment, Martha's voice echoed through the loft. Sound proofing was no match for the woman trained to project her voice to hundreds of people without a microphone.
Castle grunted, turned his face into his pillow a little more, debating whether or not to pretend to be asleep. It was mid afternoon, judging by the sunlight streaming through the window. He had woken maybe an hour ago, but still hadn't felt any compulsion to get up.
There was the briefest rat-a-tat on the door before it opened, and his mother's head poked through. Seeing him in bed with open eyes, she sighed, coming into the room and sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Darling, what's wrong? Are you ill?" she asked gently.
He shook his head, his throat closing over. He hadn't even considered yet that he would have to tell people. That he would have to find words to say that he and Kate... that he and Kate were no longer... That he and Kate weren't...
How could he find words to tell his mother that the only woman he had ever been in a relationship with that she actually got along with- even with Kyra, things hadn't always been smooth sailing- the only woman he was ever going to be in love with ever again- how could he find words to tell his mother that it was over? That it was done?
He stared up at her helplessly, blue eyes beseeching her to understand without him having to say the words. Martha pursed her lips, trying to solve the mystery before her.
"Is it Kate? Is she all right?" she asked worriedly.
His eyes slammed shut at the mention of her name. "I don't know," he croaked out, voice rasping from having not been used all day.
"You fought," Martha surmised.
He swallowed, trying to keep his emotions in check.
"Did you apologise?" his mother pushed.
He wanted to yell at her to leave him be. Take her to task for automatically assuming he was in the wrong. He wanted to slam the door and throw the picture frame from the other side of the bed across the room, shatter the glass, shred the smiling, so in love faces mocking him.
A tear escaped in spite of his efforts to hold it back, slipping out from under his clenched eyelid, sliding sideways down his temple and splashing in his ear. It felt gross, but he didn't try to wipe it away.
"Oh, darling. You broke up?" she guessed, reaching out and gently cupping his cheek.
His eyes opened, drowning blue pools swimming in a sea of barely contained tears, his anguish answer enough. He managed the slightest of nods anyway, throat so closed he couldn't have spoken even if he had words.
There were no words without her. None that held meaning, anyway.
Reaching down, she hugged him like she had done when he was a child. He clung to her, seeking comfort.
"Have you told Alexis?" she asked as she held him. He shook his head. He hadn't been able to find the words to tell his mother directly. There was no way he would be able to tell his daughter. Martha seemed to read his mind. "I'm meeting her for coffee this afternoon, to say good bye. Would you like me to break it to her?"
He pulled away, sat up slightly, using the heels of his hands to wipe away the remnant of his tears, squaring his shoulders. It was one thing to break down in front of his mother, but he needed to be strong for Alexis. "I should tell her," he said. "It's not fair on either of you to have that conversation when it's the last time you'll see each other for two months."
"I can always cancel the cruise, Richard. I don't have to go if you need me here-" she began, but he cut her off.
"I'll be fine, Mother. I promise. I'll tell Alexis next time I talk to her. Florida awaits you, and Costa Rica her. Neither of you needs to stay home to babysit me. It's probably better if you don't," he forced a smile, but it didn't come anywhere near reaching his eyes.
Martha sighed, not fooled for a second, but knowing better than to argue with her occasionally obtuse son. "All right. But promise me you're not going to do anything stupid while we're gone. No trips to Vegas, and go easy on the booze and the blondes," she instructed him firmly.
He snorted in derision, both at the thought of entertaining anyone else in his bed and at the idea of his mother of all people lecturing him about using those vices to combat heartbreak. He looked her square in the eye, unflinching steel in spite of the depth of his hurt. "Trust me, Mother. None of those things will be an issue." He sighed and looked away. "Not this time."
"I'm serious, Richard. If you need me to stay home, I can," she said, but he shook his head resolutely.
"You've been looking forward to this trip for months. It's only three weeks, and Alexis doesn't leave for two, so there will only be a week where..." his voice faltered briefly, but but he swallowed and kept going, "where I'll be alone. Maybe I'll go out to the Hamptons," he finished with false bravado.
She frowned. "If you're sure..."
"I'm sure. Give my love to Alexis," he said. She sighed, standing, and bent to kiss the crown of his head.
"You'll get through this, kiddo," she squeezed his shoulder and departed, closing his bedroom door behind her.
He sat and stared at the door for several long moments.
"I'm not sure I want to," he said out loud.
The second day was much like the first. He found one of her shirts, stuffed her pillow inside of it, and hugged it to himself. It was pathetic, he knew, but no one was around to know, and he... well, he needed her. And this was the only part of her he had left.
And his memories. He had lots of those.
He played them again and again in his mind, every one of more than a hundred murders, every look and every touch, every bicker, every time she had silenced him. More recent memories flooded in, taunting him with love and laughter and tastes and smells of the two of them intertwined.
The best memories of his life, save memories of Alexis.
So he stayed in bed, with the blinds drawn, curled into her pillow with his nose buried in her shirt.
At one point, Martha came in to bid him farewell, casting more than one worried glance at him before she and her copious baggage left for Florida and a cruise, leaving him truly alone with his thoughts.
He wondered how she was doing. She had probably compartmentalized, pushed it to the back of her mind so she could focus on whatever murder it was that she had been dealt that day.
He ached for her. There was no other way to describe it. He ached for her to his very bones. He missed her like a phantom limb- she truly had been so much a piece of him. His heart.
On the third day, he rose again.
It was the doorbell that pulled him from his bed.
He hadn't changed out of the sweatpants and t-shirt he'd thrown on two nights earlier. Hadn't showered, hadn't shaved.
He noticed for the first time as he dragged his bathrobe on over his sweats that he was beginning to smell pretty bad, but there wasn't enough time to deal to that situation judging by the urgency with which the doorbell was being rung.
Stumbling out of the room, he skidded to a stop before the door, ran his fingers through his hair in the vain hope that it would improve it enough that the rest of his unkempt appearance would go unnoticed. He yanked the door open eagerly, hoping against hope that maybe, maybe, it might be her.
It wasn't.
Lanie's entire demeanor softened when she took in his haggard appearance.
"Oh, Castle. This bad, sweetie?" she asked gently. He grimaced in response, opened the door a little wider for her to come in.
She entered like she owned the place- this was Lanie Parish, after all- and placed the box she was carrying on the kitchen counter top.
He followed her because she was there. She was the first human contact he'd had since...
"When was the last time you ate? ...Or had a shower?" she added as he came nearer.
He shrugged. "I had an early dinner." His voice was raspy from lack of use.
"Early dinner? Today?" she pressed. He dropped his head, moved into the kitchen so he could lean on the counter, too weary to hold himself up.
His stomach made a gurgling noise.
"Castle, it's four thirty in the afternoon. You need to eat more than once a day," she lectured gently, hand on hip.
He raised his head, looked her in the eye, laying everything bare- his hurt, the depths of his grief. "Why?" he asked simply.
Her eyes shone suspiciously. "I'm gonna smack the pair of you," she murmured to herself, before straightening her shoulders, looking at him with compassion. "I brought you some of your things. Would it be ok for me to collect hers?"
Everything- all of the remaining light and life and vitality and Castle-ness within him drained away in that instant. His knees buckled, and it was all he could do to keep himself from winding up sprawled across the kitchen floor. All hope of seeing her again, of mending things, of the happily ever after he had constructed so carefully in his mind, all of it went up in smoke with her words.
She waited for him to recover. "Room's through here?" she asked him, nodding to his office. He nodded dumbly, followed after her at her gesture because he had nothing else to do, and collapsing in sobs on his kitchen floor wasn't an option with Lanie in the loft, gathering up everything left of Kate Beckett.
At the threshold to his room, she paused. He moved around her to the walk in closet, tugging on the bedspread as he walked past to hide the pillow with Kate's shirt on it. If Lanie noticed, she didn't say anything.
He indicated the section that had become hers. Coats, dresses, shoes (and more shoes), work clothes and casual were all stowed away neatly on hangers or shelves. There were a couple of large duffel bags there, too, that she had used to bring things over a bit at a time. Lanie got to work packing, felt him hovering somewhere behind her, but there was no conversation as she worked.
When she turned, a duffel bag in each hand, she found him watching her, gripping a photo frame in his hands.
"This is hers, too," he said gruffly.
"Castle, are you sure about this?" she asked, looking at the picture from Kate's side of the bed. It would always be hers, even if she wasn't sleeping in it.
"I want her to have it. To- remember," his voice cracked a little at the end there.
She nodded, bent down to tuck the picture frame into one of the bags, before turning to go.
"Lanie?" he called after her in desperation as she crossed his study. She turned, looked at him. "How's she doing?" he asked, unable to stop himself.
That compassion was back in the M.E.'s eyes. Maybe it had never left. "She's hurting, Castle. She's hurting real bad. As bad as you, I imagine," she added, eyes sweeping over his dishevelment.
He nodded, dropped his eyes. She stepped towards him.
"Castle, I'm not going to give you any false hope in this. We both know who we're dealing with here. But you need to snap out of this, for your daughter if nothing else. Have you even told Alexis?" he shook his head, and she sighed. "I thought not. Look, I'm not telling you to move on or do anything you don't feel you can do, but try to do something, ok? Have a shower. Get dressed. Try writing something. It doesn't have to be Nikki. It doesn't have to be anything. Just start working through this. Try to figure out who you are without Kate," she said, dropping the two bags to give him a hug, bad smell or no bad smell.
He clung to her like a lost little boy.
"Tell her... tell her I'm here? That I would give anything..." his words ended in a hiccup, and she patted him gently on the back before releasing him.
"I will. But you know Kate, Castle."
He sighed, and nodded. "Thanks, Lanie. And tell the boys that they're welcome any time, unless its weird for them to try to be friends with both of us- in which case I understand."
She smiled. "I will. And I might invite myself over one night when that girl of yours in home from College. I haven't seen her in far too long."
He nodded, even managed to lift the corners of his mouth into something that could resemble a smile as she picked up the bags and headed for the door.
"You'll make it through this, Castle. I promise," she assured him softly, letting herself out.
He took a shower.
Shaved.
Re-made the bed. Kept Kate's shirt-covered pillow right where it was, though.
Forced himself to have a sandwich. It was dry and tasteless, sat heavily in his stomach. He had a glass of juice, too, figuring sugar probably wasn't such a bad idea considering how long he was going between meals just now.
On the way back to his room, he paused by the television. Maybe drowning out his thoughts with mindless babble wasn't such a bad idea. Flipping through the options, his breath caught when he saw Nebula 9 nestled between a few other choices.
His heart twisted painfully in his chest as he recalled that case, her playfulness.
He pressed play.
Day four began much like the last three, only on on the sofa and with the Nebula 9 disc menu playing on repeat, Captain Max's voice on loop every minute or so over the theme music, blessing Castle with fortune to guide his journey.
He groaned and rolled over, stretching the muscles in his neck and shoulder that were objecting to sleeping in such an unusual position, before digging around for the remote between the cushions. With a touch of a button, Captain Max's smarmy smile disappeared.
Castle dropped the remote on the floor, sitting up slowly. His stomach gurgled, and he had a pounding headache. Idly, he wondered if that was from his current emotional state, or if it was caffeine withdrawal- he hadn't had a cup of coffee since everything went to pieces. The thought of drinking it without her being here, without making hers as yet another way to say "good morning" and "I love you" made his stomach lurch uncomfortably. He took a deep, calming breath to settle the nausea.
Running his fingers through his hair, he groaned and stretched, carefully working the stiff muscles in his neck that were loudly complaining about spending the night on the sofa.
He sat there for several minutes, staring blankly at the staircase picture above his desk as if it held the answers to all of life's questions, almost enjoying the discomfort his body was in. It was sick and demented and not him at all, but a small corner of him relished the headache and the stiff muscles and the nausea. At least he was feeling something other than the numbing darkness that had been clouding his brain since it happened.
Finally he stood, stretching his back, and shuffled to the bathroom. Lanie was right. He had to start working through this, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.
He used the facilities. Brushed his teeth. Showered. Shaved. Got dressed. Shuffled out to the kitchen. Forced down a piece of toast and a glass of juice.
He glanced around the kitchen. The place was in a bit of a mess. The housekeeper wasn't able to come in this week- her daughter had just had a baby- and normally he would have been careful to keep the loft to a certain standard anyway. He had always found tidy, open spaces helped his creativity to flow- it was one of the things that had attracted him to this place when he had been looking for a home of his own.
Shrugging his shoulders- not that there was anyone around to see the gesture; still, it was relieving to do- he began stacking and rinsing so he could load the dishwasher. He then set about wiping down the counter and stove top.
Moving through the loft, he straightened throw rugs and couch cushions, replaced books on shelves, cleared away rubbish. A couple of business letters were sitting on the coffee table from the day he had opened them- almost a week ago now- so he picked them up and took them into his study, sitting at his desk to file them away.
He was about to stand when he noticed his laptop sitting on his desk, front and center. Hesitating, he stared at it for a long moment.
Try writing something, Lanie had said.
It doesn't have to be Nikki, Lanie had said.
It doesn't have to be anything.
Could he write? She was his muse, and he didn't have her any more. What if his words were gone with her?
He closed his eyes, effortlessly conjured up her smile.
Yes.
He could do this.
Turning on the laptop, he drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited for it to load. Creating a new document straight to his desktop, he named it simply "Dear Kate". He made a mental note to file it away properly later, but for now, he was suddenly eager to write.
Dear Kate,
I love you.
I know you've heard me say it. I know you've said it back to me. It's such a simple phrase, and it gets tossed around so much that sometimes I wonder if it has somehow lost its magic. Not that we've really used it between us all that often. For the most part, we've saved it for life and death situations. We've had other ways of expressing it. Looks and touches and coffee and novels and always. I want you to hear me when I say it this time, though, so I'm going to keep on saying it. I want to say it every single day for the rest of my life.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you so much that these past few days without you has felt like I haven't been able to breathe properly. There's something wrong with the air. You aren't in the atmosphere. I can't feel you near me. I need you to be near me. I love you.
I want you to know how much this past year has meant to me. I've been playing it over in my mind- right from the moment you knocked on my door, soaked to the skin, claiming my mouth and my heart, telling me you just want me. I remember that I didn't believe you at first. I didn't want to. I was still so angry at you, still wasn't sure that you hadn't lied about remembering because you didn't feel the same way. And then you kissed me, again and again, and I didn't know what to do. Then I looked into your eyes and saw that you meant it, that you were finally in this with me. Kate, that night- and every night that I've shared with you since then- was the best night of my life.
I remember what you taste like.
It trips over my tongue. Warms me up, sets my blood on fire. And your scent- I dread the day my sheets no longer carry the smell of you. It's home to me. You're home to me. Without you, I'm drifting.
I'm so scared, Kate. The idea of a future without you is beyond my comprehension. You wanted to talk about our future? Fine. Let's talk about our future. Do you know why I didn't have an answer for you, Kate? It was because I was scared. I still am. I'm petrified. I know what I want, but the idea of telling you freezes me up, makes my palms sweat and my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.
I want to marry you, Kate.
I don't want a big or flashy wedding- just our closest friends and family on the beach at the Hamptons or in the woods at your father's cabin. You've taught me that small and intimate can be bigger and more real than grandiose and expensive, and I want our wedding to reflect that. It's who we are. It's who you've made me. I want you in a white dress on your father's arm. I want Ryan and Esposito to bicker about who gets to be best man, and make bets on which of us will cry first. I will, I know it. Seeing you come down the aisle towards me- wherever we do it- that's my dream, Kate.
I want to have children with you.
Stubborn, smart, beautiful children with all my mischief and all your independence, who will turn our hearts inside out and our lives upside down. I love kids, but after Meredith left, I swore I wouldn't have anymore unless I have someone- the right person- beside me. You're that person, Kate. You're the right person. You will be a terrific mom one day. You're amazing at everything you touch, and you have so much empathy and love. You have grace and wisdom and integrity, and I just know that you would pass on all of that to ours kids.
The idea of you being pregnant- the vision that rises before my eyes of your stomach swollen with my child, of you guiding my hand to your skin to feel a tiny foot press against me from within you- Kate, it leaves me breathless. It is the most arousing, intoxicating thought that has ever entered my head. You'd be so beautiful. Not to mention incredibly hot.
Then I get brought down to earth with a thump. We aren't even together any more. Even when we were, marriage and children were never discussed. I told you I'd wait for you to be on the same page as me. I thought we were enjoying being together. I know how scared you get of commitment, how you always keep one foot out the door of your relationships. I had hoped that I was different.
Yet, the moment we hit a bump, you ran.
Why, Kate? Were you really so miserable with me? So bored? Did I really treat you so badly? I thought the point of diving in together was that when things get tough, we'd fight through, side by side. I know you, Kate. You aren't fickle. You get scared sometimes. That's why I didn't want to tell you where I thought we were going. I knew it would scare you, overwhelm you, and that would make you want to run.
You ran anyway, and I feel like I don't really know why.
You said I had been pulling away since Alexis was kidnapped. Maybe that's true, but if it is, it wasn't intentional. Maybe I just needed you to fight for me a little, the way I've always fought for you. Not that I'm blaming you. Maybe I am. I don't even know any more. I do know that Paris was my worst nightmare, but Kate, losing you was my other nightmare. You and Alexis- the two of you are my world. Paris- more specifically, the one-on-one time I spent with Douglas Stevens before I even left- it changed me. I didn't know I had that in me. All I know is that I would give my life to keep my family safe. Alexis and Mother, yes, but you, too. Why else would I come back to you while you were standing on that bomb?
I can't live without you, Kate. I can function. I can get up in the morning and go to bed at night, eat, sleep, interact with people, pay my taxes. I can pretend to live. I can smile for Alexis. But that spark that comes with truly feeling alive? It doesn't exist without you. I love you, Kate.
I'll probably never send this to you. You'll probably never read it, but I needed to get it out of me. It was festering inside, and I needed to expunge it. I'll probably keep adding to this, though, as if I really was saying it to you or sending it to you. Maybe I hope I'll have the courage to send it one day. Even if we never come together again, I would love one final chance to explain. To lay my cards on the table.
In the meantime, I hope that in spite of everything, you know that I love you. I love you, Kate. Kate, I love you. You, Kate. I love you. You need to know that. Surely you know it. Maybe you never grasped how deeply it runs within me, maybe I never found a way to communicate it so you would understand- God knows we've had more than our fair share of miscommunications, that we've always struggled to say out loud the things we hold dearest to our hearts- but there's nothing holding me back any more. So, one more time, without subtext, without agenda, the plain and simple truth is this:
I love you. Always.
Thoughts?