A/N: I have no excuse, dear readers, other than personal struggles in real life. Thank you so much for your patience, your kindness, and for nudging me on in spite of my absence. Please know that I never forgot this story, and still have every intention of finishing it. I know where it's going. There is a plan. It just may not happen before the end of the hiatus, for which I am sorry. Thank you for continuing on this journey with me.

Special mention must go to BlueOrchid96 for her continued love, support, care, and snuggling- she blesses me every single day; and also to honeyandvodka for just being awesome and generous with her time.

It would be a lie to say that he felt better once he stopped writing. He didn't. Not better. Maybe a little lighter, though. Maybe his thoughts weren't swirling quite to the same degree, maybe the clamor inside his head had abated at least slightly.

Leaning back in his desk chair, he stretched, glanced around the room. He really hadn't been writing for very long. An hour, maybe, at the most? He could keep going, he supposed- there wasn't much else to do- but he was feeling suddenly restless.

Cooped up.

He hadn't left the loft since it had happened.

He hadn't wanted to.

He was filled suddenly with a burning desire to get out of there. The walls seemed to lean in on him, and the air tasted stuffy.

Only there was nowhere to go.

What would Kate do? The thought came unbidden, but he didn't try to push it away. She and Alexis had long since been the voices of reason inside his head. He lolled his head back against the chair, closed his eyes, and embraced the thoughts of her.

Some of his most treasured memories involved some of their long, lazy days, simply spending time together. They would lie in bed til midday, trading kisses, doing the crossword together, making love languidly and thoroughly. He would often spend a portion of the afternoon writing- he always felt inspired on those days- and she would pluck a book from his shelves and curl up on the sofa in the study, both of them loving being able to simply be, together. No words needed- no interaction at all, save from the occasional glance across the room to savor the other's presence.

Inevitably, though, she would stand and stretch, mark the place in her book and take it to her nightstand if she liked it, or replace it on the shelf if she deemed it unworthy of pursuit. Kate Beckett was remarkable, extraordinary. Not just an active mind, but an active person. A do-er. While these long, lazy days appealed to Castle- he would lock them in the loft forever if he could, away from the prying eyes of the outside world- there always came a point some time in the late afternoon where Kate needed to do something. So she would rise and stretch, rid herself of whatever she was reading, change into her workout clothes. She always wore sneakers, a tank top, an NYPD hoody, and the most distracting, sexy little shorts in the world. She knew that he loved to peel those shorts off her, skimming his fingers down her endless legs- and she knew exactly what she was doing when she would come out and drape her arm around his shoulders, press her lips to his temple or along his jaw, and then escape with a laugh as he came out of his word-induced reverie just a moment too late to snare her. If he was lucky, his fingertips would manage to brush the soft cotton of her sweater, the silk of her thigh where it peeked out from under those miniscule shorts.

She would normally be gone for about an hour, returning sweaty, happy, and sexy. Sweaty Kate was one of his favorite versions of her, so even though she complained that she was gross and smelly and he couldn't possibly find her attractive right now- the thought that often produced an inelegant, derisive snort from him- he would abandon his writing when he heard her return, pin her against the bedroom door and "help" her change out of her exercise clothes- more often than not joining her in the shower, too.

He missed Sweaty Kate. Hell, he missed Kate, period.

Pushing back from his desk chair, he headed into his bedroom and changed into shorts and an old t-shirt. A run would do him good, and maybe, just maybe, it would make him feel closer to her.

Maybe he could outrun the feeling of despair that came over him when he remembered that Kate Beckett was no longer part of his life.

Slipping his phone, his keys, and a couple of twenties into his pocket- he made it a rule to never go anywhere without cab fare, even if he wasn't planning on taking a cab- he locked the door and headed down to the lobby, lying boldly through his teeth when his doorman asked how he was doing. He then headed out, springing into an easy jog.

He hadn't always been one for fitness. He'd been blessed with a relatively healthy physique, so keeping in shape hadn't really been an issue for a long time. Working with the Twelfth had encouraged him to work a little harder at it, so that he could keep up with the Detective he shadowed, but a couple of their rougher patches had sent him into a spiral of moping and eating his sorrow. Like the summer she was shot, and then didn't call him for three months. After he'd been kicked out of the precinct, he hadn't wanted to go anywhere, do anything. He had wanted to be available, just in case she called.

She never did.

Even though she had said she would.

And this time, he had no such promise to cling to.

They were just... over.

His lungs began to burn, but he pushed himself onwards, dodging his fellow pedestrians, weaving expertly down the sidewalk without really paying attention to any of it. His muscles cried out at the onslaught, but he pushed through it, relishing the sensation. Even though he felt like he couldn't breathe, he kept going, sinking his mind into the steady rhythm of his steps.

It was as if he was trying to outrun the past four days.

Eventually, though, he couldn't maintain it, and he settled back into a walk. Sweat poured off him in the city heat, and the thought occurred to him that he must look like a disheveled wreck.

He swatted the thought away.

Another change Kate Beckett had made to his life- without her in it, his physical appearance simply ceased to be of any importance.

He began to simply wander, focusing his thoughts on nothing more than the feel of the sun on his skin, the smells and atmosphere of Manhattan. He didn't want to forget her, it was nice to be out and away from his bubble of misery.

Suddenly he glanced up and realized his surroundings were awfully familiar.

Terribly, awfully familiar.

Almost as familiar as his own block. After all, this had been his second home for the past year.

He moved along the pavement slowly, unwillingly- yet, as always, drawn along by some magnetic force that he was powerless to resist, until he stumbled to a stop directly opposite her building.

Lifting his eyes, he easily spotted her window. It wasn't the first time he'd glanced up at her building and tried to determine if she was home.

She wouldn't be there. Not today. She'd be at the precinct, running down leads if some poor schmuck's life had been cut short prematurely, or trying to ignore the boys' shenanigans while pushing through her paper work if there wasn't a case.

He wondered if she missed him.

He wondered if she ever glanced up at his chair to say something to him, only to be reminded that he wasn't there anymore.

Did she still think of him every time she refilled her coffee mug? Did she blink back tears when she found one of the suggestive post-it notes he delighted in hiding in amongst her stationary to make her laugh and glare at him simultaneously? Did her heart squeeze in her chest with every breath, because with every breath came a reminder of everything they had shared?

His arms ached. Not from exercise. Not from the brutal pounding he had subjected himself to. His arms ached- actually physically ached- to hold her one more time. He yearned to wrap himself around her slender frame, to feel her strength and her vulnerability. To show her without words just how deeply he loved her, because bestselling author or not, he simply didn't have vocabulary enough. There were no words in any language with the power or strength to describe the magnitude of his feelings.

Yet when he had needed most to be able to formulate them, his words had failed him.

She thought he didn't care. That he wasn't in for the long haul.

With a dejected sigh, he turned away, forcing himself to not look back.

Once he got around the corner, he broke out into a jog again.

"Dad?"

Castle jumped as the door to the loft banged shut unexpectedly at the same time as Alexis' voice rang out.

The sound of heeled boots rapidly crossing the hardwood floor was all the warning he got before his favorite redhead poked her head around the study door.

He slammed the lid of his laptop down and plastered a smile on his face. He must have looked either guilty or a little too maniacal, because she raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips as she fully entered the room, looking more like a disapproving parent than a child home from college.

"What's going on?" she asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," he assured her. "Just writing. You surprised me- I wasn't expecting you until the weekend."

She looked at him for a moment, assessing the veracity of his words, before dropping her stern demeanor and coming around the desk to loop her arms around him, kissing his cheek in greeting. "I just handed in the bigger of the two assignments due this week, and I thought I'd reward myself with a study break before plunging into the other one. Do you want to play laser tag?" she asked a little too sweetly.

He leaned away, holding her at arms length for a long moment. "All right, what did you Grandmother say?"

Her eyes were a round, guileless blue. The corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly. "Nothing!" she insisted, but he knew her tells too well. He raised an eyebrow, waited. She sighed, caving. "All right, she might have suggested you'd appreciate me stopping by this week if I was free, ok? She didn't say why. But she was being all cagey, in a you-need-cheering-up-but-she-promised-not-to-tell kind of way. Dad, what's going on?"

He sighed, shook his head. Standing, he looped his arm around his daughter's shoulders and guided them out of the study and towards the kitchen. "Hot chocolate?" he asked, completely avoiding both her question and her gaze.

Alexis stopped short.

"That bad? Tell me, Dad!"

He moved ahead of her into the kitchen, pulling down two large mugs, and set about preparing their super secret family recipe hot chocolate. She watched his movements, growing more concerned the longer he was silent. Eventually, she slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar.

He sighed, leaning against the counter, and looked at her, allowing the grief at recent events to finally show on his face.

"Daddy?" she asked in a small voice.

He swallowed a lump in his throat. "Kate and I broke up," he croaked out.

She leaped down from the stool and rounded the counter, flinging her arms around him. "What happened? Why?" she questioned as she hugged him. Her voice took on a hard edge. "What did she do?"

He pulled away, running a hand over her fiery hair affectionately to soften his stern tone. "It wasn't her fault, Alexis. This one's on me." He turned away to continue preparing their drinks. "I brought it on myself," he mumbled.

She waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn't continue, she moved back around to the stool. "What did you do, then?" she asked.

He sighed heavily. "Nothing."

"Da-ad," she drew it out like she used to when she was smaller and he was being silly. He finished the hot chocolates, sliding one mug towards her, meeting her eyes guiltily.

"It's the literal truth," he said. "She asked me where we were going. If we were ready to move forward. And I did nothing."

"Why? You know where you want you and Kate to go. Did you change your mind?" she cradled the hot chocolate in her hands, blowing on the surface to cool in a little before sipping tentatively.

He shook his head, looked away, ashamed. "I froze, Alexis. I was going to tell her- everything. That I'd already talked to you and asked her Dad's permission and- I froze."

She stared at him, perplexed. "But- you've had it all planned out. You were going to ask her. You really said nothing?"

He bowed his head, crumbling under his daughter's disappointment. "If I'd answered her honestly, it would have been too much. She'd run. It's why I said 'someday' when I asked you. I just... I just wanted to make her happy. In the end that wasn't enough."

The last was said so low it barely reached her, but she still heard.

"Have you contacted her since then?" Alexis asked quietly.

His eyes were dull when he raised them to meet hers. "What's the point? We broke up, Alexis. It's done."

Alexis frowned. "You've been shadowing Detective Beckett for five years, Dad. Even when things haven't been great between you, you always went back. Every time, no matter what either of you did. Why are you giving this up without a fight?"

He recoiled as if he'd been struck. "I fought, Alexis. I stayed. I've been staying for five years. It's all I've done."

"Staying is staying, Dad. It's stagnant. It isn't fighting for your relationship. And this time you didn't do either," her tone was gentle, in spite of her words.

"What am I meant to do? Go back and beg? You know what Kate's like once her mind is made up." He ran a hand through his hair.

"Yes, Dad. Go back and beg. Tell her where you see your relationship going. Be brave." She leaned forward across the breakfast bar in her earnestness, but he shook his head.

"It's too late. The damage is done. She wanted to know I was serious- that I had thought about where we were going- and I was trying so hard not to scare her off that I lost her."

"But you're not even trying! What's wrong with going to talk to her? Can't you just say you're sorry?" she questioned.

"It isn't that simple. She needed an answer then. Not now. So when I froze, all I did was communicate that I'm not ready. Me going back and begging for her won't do anything to change her mind. All it'll do is communicate how not ready for real commitment I am- it'll look like it's a knee jerk reaction. No, I need to give her space for now, because she asked for it, and then some how, some way find a way to prove to her that I'm serious about my future with her."

Alexis watched him with blue eyes full of pity and no small measure of disappointment. He looked away, unable to handle seeing his little girl looking at him like that.

"So that's it, then?" she asked sadly.

"Guess so," he replied.

They sipped their hot chocolates silently after that, since there wasn't really anything left to say. When Alexis drained the remnants of her mug, she moved around the breakfast bar to embrace him again.

"I may not always agree with what you do, Dad, but I love you no matter what," she told him. He almost smiled.

"Remind me which of us is the parent here again?" he joked as they finally parted.

She sighed a big sigh. "I ask myself that every day," she said with a cheeky twinkle. He looped an arm around her, ruffling her hair with his other hand. She shrieked and squirmed, but he didn't let her go until he had pulled her in for another hug, planting a kiss on her forehead.

"I love you, Pumpkin," he said.

"I love you, too, Dad," she replied.

Alexis had stayed to watch a movie with him before heading back to her dorm, indulging him with ice cream straight from the tub and popcorn aplenty.

It was a great distraction while it lasted. He had never been able to be completely miserable when his baby girl was there.

When she left, though, the loft felt doubly empty.

He roamed from room to room for a while, searching for a distraction and finding none. There was nothing to fill the yawning void in his life.

He played over his conversation with Alexis in his mind again and again, listening to her arguments, rolling them around his consciousness, listening to his own responses, weighing them both in the light of the truth of the situation as he understood it.

It was no use though.

The truth was, if he went crawling back to Kate now, anything he said would be too little, too late.

He perched on the foot of the guest room bed, remembering the days she had stayed in this room after her apartment blew up.

He had never told her, but that case was dear to his heart in spite of the terror of Kate being targeted because of his books. In that one heart stopping, terror inducing moment when he had witnessed her apartment go up in flames, he had known without a doubt for the first time that he was totally and irrevocably in love with Kate Beckett.

Totally and irrevocably.

In spite of Gina and Demming and Dr. Motorcycle Boy. In spite of freezers and lies and secrets and snipers. In spite of lies and misunderstandings.

In spite of every obstacle placed before them, they had finally won. They had been together.

And now it was over, and he only had his own stupidity to thank.

He groaned, flopping back on the bed, throwing an arm over his face.

Rehashing his stupidity wasn't going to help anything.

Kate was gone.

Time to rehash his life plan.

Pushing himself up off the bed, he headed down to his study and pulled up a blank word document.

RICHARD CASTLE'S NEW LIFE PLAN: POST BECKETT

-Write every day. Get back to basics, and just practice writing what's in my mind and putting it on the page.

-Meet every deadline for the next book. Warning: this could cause Gina to have some kind of medical emergency, which, of course, could very well make the whole thing worthwhile.

-Give Nikki a happy ending. She's made me a better writer. She deserves that much, at least. Besides, she's one character I want to always have the possibility of writing again.

-Be grateful for what I have, instead of dwelling on what I've lost. Make more time for doing cool things with Alexis now she's old enough to enjoy them.

-Get in shape. I ate- or worse, drank- my way out of every break up I've ever been through, but this one deserves more.

-Continue to grow into being the better version of me I never knew existed until Kate came into my life. I refuse to let our time together be meaningless.

-Never forget, but never grow bitter. We both deserve more than that.

-Be more. Be the man she deserves, even if I never get her back.

He stared at the cursor blinking in front of him. It wasn't a long list, he knew that, but its construction had taken a while.

He had wanted to give it the respect it deserved by truly considering every item. This was no flippant, playful bucket list.

He had also needed to step away to blow his nose a couple of times, as evidence of his ruminations caused unpleasant leaking from certain facial orifices.

His chest still felt tight. The cold fist of grief was still there. But in spite of that, he felt hopeful for the first time.

He had a plan.

He was going to prove he had been worthy of her.

Even if he never again had the chance to prove it to her.

A wave of weariness washed over him. He had no idea what time it was.

It had been a full day, really, between writing and running and the time he had spent with Alexis.

Pushing away from his desk, he headed into his room, going about his nightly routine. Part of being more meant keeping up his standards, and that included his hygiene. He needed to keep to the level he would strive for as if she were actually here.

For the first time since he and Kate broke up, he set his alarm clock.

The next few days trickled by in much the same pattern.

His alarm would wake him from torturous dreams of them entwined together, jarring him into the reality of an empty bed. It always took him a moment to get out of bed as he savored the memories of her taste, her touch from his dreams.

He would then force himself out of bed, have a glass of water and get ready for a run. Before long, he'd be out pounding the pavement, putting his grief to good use, powering his body into action. Strangely he found the physicality of running briefly lessened the hurt in his heart, clearing his head of the sadness that overwhelmed him.

More often than not, he would find himself in her neighborhood, on her street, standing beneath her apartment building. Once, he even saw her car parked out on the street. He didn't stop that day.

Some days he would. He would stand beneath her building, staring up at her windows, and wonder what would happen if he went up there. What he would say. What she would say. Whether she would even open the door to him. Whether she missed him with the same gut wrenching, soul destroying ache that he missed her.

He knew he probably looked like some kind of crazy stalker, staring up at her windows, but he honestly didn't care. His heart called for her.

Sooner or later, though, it would be time to move on. It was always so difficult to pull himself away, to turn his steps towards the loft.

His feet always felt like concrete blocks on the way back.

He still ran, though, as much as he could. He was surprised by how out of shape he'd let himself become, but after a few days he found he could push himself further and further, only stopping when oxygen became absolutely necessary to not passing out.

By the time he reached the loft, he was soaked in perspiration and his muscles ached, but he at least had a sense of accomplishment as he leaned against the cool wall of the elevator as he ascended to his loft. Once inside, it was into the shower, the lukewarm spray cooling his skin and leaving him feeling refreshed from the city's heat.

Then it was writing time. While his brain was still fresh, he devoted his time to mapping out the next Nikki Heat. It was his favorite part of the writing experience, figuring out the twists and turns of the case and where and how keys pieces of evidence were to be revealed. He steered clear of Nikki and Rook's personal drama for now- it was too raw, although he knew he would need to have it figured out by the time he pitched his outline to Black Pawn.

Sooner or later, though, his mind would shift from Nikki back to her real life inspiration, and he would close his fake murder board and open his laptop. If he was being completely honest with himself, this was the part of the day he most looked forward to.

It was when he got to write to Kate.

She was never going to read them, he knew that, but he just... he needed Kate Beckett in his life in some small way.

He knew it was pathetic, but he just didn't care.

He wrote about anything, everything. Boring, mundane things, thoughts that had struck him that he missed sharing with her. Sometimes the letters became confessional, allowing him a place to express long buried hurts that he didn't feel he could tell anyone.

He stored them all carefully in his "Dear Kate" folder- it was a folder now, not merely a document- and carefully timed and dated them. He had read once that the more specific one could be about documenting when a journal entry was written, the more useful it would be should one choose to go back and assess one's growth.

He felt purged once he had written to her. It was a strange sensation, like his mind was washed clean and ready to start again. His thoughts would finally be quiet enough for him to deal with life. It was during this time that he would make dinner or call Alexis or deal with business matters that he had, in the past, neglected with joyous abandon. But this was part of his new resolve- to be better, to be more.

For her.

He could never deny that it was all for her- every ounce of energy it took not to wallow in his grief. She wanted to know he was serious, that he knew what he wanted for them? Fine. He would show her. His words had failed him at the critical moment, but Kate Beckett was a woman of action, and should their paths ever cross again- and he prayed they did- he wanted to be able to prove to her that he was worthy of her after all.

Assuming she hadn't been snapped up by someone else by then.

God knows she should be. She deserved more than him. He'd known that from the start. But his foolish hope had persevered and eventually, through hard work and dedication and continuing to simply be there, he had won her over for a time.

The thought of her moving on to someone else twisted his gut, made his stomach churn, sent him careening into the depths of despair.

Yet the image of her being alone forever brought him no satisfaction, either. Kate Beckett had such a capacity for love, for joy- he knew he had barely scratched the surface, that it went even deeper than he could possibly imagine.

He wanted her to be happy.

He wanted her to have a full, rich life. To have everything she could possibly desire, and more.

He wanted to be the one to give her that. Since that was now out of the question, and though it hurt more than he had words to describe, he still want that for her- with someone else, if that was what needed to happen.

He could learn to be satisfied if he knew she had found true happiness.

He loved her enough to let her go.

Night times were the hardest.

His mind purged, and with the comfortable knowledge of a good day of getting things done, he would go through his evening routine and settle into bed uncharacteristically early. Those runs made the early bedtime a necessity.

He would read until he couldn't possibly keep his eyes open any longer- all kinds of books, everything he felt he'd missed over the past five years while his attention was otherwise occupied- but even so, the moment the lights were out and his eyes were closed, that was when she would be there, painted vividly on his mind's eye.

It was sweet torture. He was devastated and broken by her absence beside him, by his mind's insistence at conjuring her image- yet he simultaneously ached for every memory, every scrap of her he could hold onto.

He knew it was messed up, but he just... missed her.

In spite of his tiredness, it would take him forever to fall asleep, his mind too full of her to allow him to fall into slumber.

But then, when he finally did, he would dream of her once again. Of them. The glide of her skin over his, the mewling noise she swore she didn't make in the throes of passion, the feel of her wet for him, clamped around him, drawing out their pleasure or playfully teasing him or being focused and determined as she rode him to completion. The way she was all pliant and adorable and just a little bit dopey afterwards, cuddling into him.

When the weekend finally arrived, and Alexis was finished with finals and assignments for the semester, he threw himself into planning his tiny amount of time with her to maximum impact, trying to fit as many of their traditional summer activities into their scant few days as possible.

She seemed to understand his need to make the most of their time. To be honest, part of her was thankful for a chance to do some of the activities she had honestly wondered if she would wind up missing out on this year, so when she wasn't farewelling friends and seeing to last minute details of her trip, she spent her last days at the loft. She went out of her way to fall in with any scheme her father devised, whether it be laser tag or fencing or sightseeing or creating blanket forts or inedible deserts.

If she was relieved to have her father to herself without him being distracted by his girlfriend's presence or him dashing off to the precinct for "work", she was wise enough to keep it to herself. All he knew was that he was incredibly thankful for his baby girl, and no matter what it cost him to put on a front of happiness for her that neither of them believed, it was worth it to get some real, quality time with the precious young lady his daughter had grown into.

All good things come to an end, though, and it was a miserable drive back from the airport at an abysmally early hour of the morning that saw him reentering the silent loft.

It was an oppressive quiet.

His daughter was gone.

His mother was gone.

He was cut off from his friends.

His love was more unattainable than ever.

Truly, he had never been more alone.

He moved into his study with heavy steps, and poured himself two fingers of the hard stuff he had thus far avoided, before slumping into his desk chair.

He stared into the amber liquid, musing that it was closer to 5am than 5pm, but at least it was five o'clock somewhere.

He only took one sip, rolling the burning, harsh flavor across his tongue and throat, before replacing the tumbler on the desk in front of him.

He then buried his face in his arms and wept.

And finally, finally, when his head was spinning and his tear ducts were dry, he sat himself up, reached for his computer, and began again to write.

Thoughts?