I want to let the rain come down
Make a brand new ground
Let the rain come down.
Tonight.
— Let the Rain, Sara Bareilles
Her place is quiet, almost overly so. It's as if the city took a day to mourn its best citizen; there is no sound of ambulances crossing the air, no honking, no air conditioning systems cracking and jamming on the outside of the apartment. The silence is reverent and is enhanced when she flicks the light open, the dim light above her kitchenette illuminating the living area just enough so they can circulate.
She keeps the door open for him, watches him take off his coat and hang it on a rack at the closet. She falls in wonder with the ease with which he moves around her place, with the familiarity of the situation. It's a beacon of light in a dark day and she takes it for what it is. She drops the keys on the bowl near the door and pulls her service piece out of its holster, along with the badge from her hat. She moves to the bedroom and slowly extracts the wooden box with the picture of her parents from its place on the vanity; dropping it on the bedspread, she opens it and carefully places the gun and badge inside. She feels the soft velvet surface beneath her fingers, allowing them to travel a little, soften the tissue with their passage.
He watches from the doorway, his hands on his pockets, his shoulder against the doorjamb. His shirt has the first button open now and his tie seems to have vanished. He looks more like the regular Castle now, not like the man at the funeral. She likes him better this way — that kind of darkness doesn't match his personality. Hers, yes. Not his.
She closes the box and places it back on the vanity. It's only then that she realizes that she's still wearing her uniform, her stuffy and uncomfortable — but oh so comforting — dark blue uniform. He seems to realize it at the same time she does, because he stand up, points to the vanity.
"You probably want to change. I'll... I'll just be over here." He says, his voice cracking a little bit in the middle of the sentence. If she wasn't so close to tears, she'd laugh. He doesn't move, not yet. Not when she's looking at the mirror with that kind of stoic expression, her lip quivering slightly.
She unbuttons her coat slowly, her eyes set on her hands with the mirror in between. The metallic disks come undone one by one and she feels like she's putting on a show for him — one that's either extremely erotic or excruciatingly sad. She doesn't cry, but her fingers do tremble at the last button. She can hear his sharp intake of hair, his hands now limp at his sides, his mouth open. She pulls it off carefully and looks at him.
No words are needed. He nods and closes the door, moving away from it, leaving her alone for a minute.
She moves to the closet, picks out a pair of yoga pants and a loose fitting, dark grey sweater. It's relaxed enough, it covers enough. It's safe enough to be around him. She unties her hair, allows it to fall around her shoulders. Her make up is smudged, but she doesn't really care. This isn't a night for beauty — it's a night for sadness, a night for comfort. Whatever this is, it's not a night for beauty.
He's waiting for her in the living area, a couple of take out menus placed on the wooden counter of her kitchenette. He's looking at them intently, but she knows his mind is somewhere else. Hers is, as well. He stands up with his phone on his hand, a curious look washing over his face.
"Thai? Italian? Japanese?" He inquires and she sits at one of the stools, her chin falling to her closed fist.
"Whatever you want. I'm not very hungry."
"Thai it is." He says softly and calls the number, placing their usual orders, plus a few other dishes she knows he considers comfort food. She appreciates the effort — he's doing his best to be supportive but to keep his distance at the same time. A friend. If only he knew.
"Kate?" He calls and she realizes they have been silent for a long time, both their minds lost in the grief of the day, in the events of the night before.
"Yeah?" It's just a breath, but it makes a sound and it's an encouraging one. His eyes find hers and she can see a spark in them, a glimmer of hope. Like he just found a way to get them out of there, of that dark place.
"Tell me a story."
A few hours have passed. The thai food arrived and they ate while she did most of the talking, unlike all the other days in their lives. Her voice, soft and slow and tinted with the weight of the day, floated softly through the apartment as she told him about Christmas at the Becketts.
How the myth of Santa Claus had been replaced by Baby Jesus when she was five — and how it scared her instead of making her anxious for the gifts; how the mornings were filled with the smell of coffee (that Johanna and Jim would allow her to have in a small dose, because it was Christmas and she had been such a good girl) and the sound of Benny Goodman playing in the background instead of the traditional holiday music; how her parents would dance across the kitchen, their hands tangled together, their foreheads against each other's, swaying softly and in tempo.
She's told him about the Christmas when she became older, about ice skating at Rockefeller Center and last minute shopping with her mother. She's told him about the carolers outside of their brownstone (had she ever told him that her family actually had money? Not just enough to live, but some well apparent wealth?) and the smell of gingerbread cookies. She'd told him about her grandmother Ruth, who started coming over for Christmas when her grandfather Theodore passed away.
She's also told him about the decorations, about the nights she used to spend lying under the tree, watching the lights blink until she couldn't see straight. How her mother would do it with her, every time she came home late from work and caught her little Katie out of bed.
She has told him every story she remembers, from when she was little and her world was still bright and pink and innocent. And now that they're on her couch, that her knees are touching his and their hands are around glasses of scotch, she realizes she's been smiling more in the past couple of hours than she has all month.
"I see what you did there." She whispers, her voice playfully conspirational.
His chest swells at her words and she can tell that he didn't expect this. Not this tone, not this playfulness. He's clearly happy he's succeeded.
"What is it that I did, Detective?"
"Make me remember good things instead of bad ones." Her fingers draw up the contours of the glass while she looks outside. The air is warming up, the Summer is coming. He's probably going to the Hamptons again, to write. She knows he needs to — his due date must be near.
"I admit to nothing." He replies just as playfully as she speaks. They smile and the silence engulfs them like a blanket, making everything blurry, everything serious again. "Kate."
She looks up at him, her eyes filled with such intensity, with a craving to cross the line that they drew in the sand so long ago. She knows what this is — it's the loneliness and the need for comfort, it's the fear, always the fear, creeping up her back and lodging in the back of her head, making her do things that will hurt her sooner or later.
"None of this is your fault." She sees the resolve in his eyes before he speaks, and now that the words are out she almost regrets letting him into her apartment, under her skin.
"It is." She whispers, the alcohol in her hand suddenly too appealing, too beautiful to be left on that glass. She takes a large gulp, her hand moving to the bottle to help herself to another dose. He stops her, brings her hand down with his, places them both on his knee.
"No, it's not. This, what's happening now? It started when you were nineteen. Everything now — Raglan's death, Lockwood, Montgomery — these are all consequences from what they did back then." He explains slowly but passionately. As if she is really dumb, but he really really likes her.
"It feels like it's my fault." She whispers and her eyes get lost in the lights outside, the crispness of the night air in May, that makes the wind moan softly against her window panes. He's standing still, looking at their clasped hands. He seems to be at a loss for words.
"For whatever's worth, I'm telling you it's not. When you have nothing else to hold on to, think of this, okay?" He sounds broken, just as broken as she is. Oh no. He can't be like that. She needs to make him whole again, needs to make him be the man she knows he is.
"Alexis must be waiting for you." Her hand tightens around his, a soft smile gracing her features. It's a false one, but that's the best she can give him.
"Yes. I should go." He sighs. "But I hate the thought of leaving you alone."
She drops his hand after a squeeze. "I'll be fine, go."
He stands up from the couch and prepares to move away, but a question stops him.
"Would you like me to call Josh?"
Oh. She seems to have forgotten to tell him about the good doctor. About the fact that he didn't even call the night Montgomery died. About the fact that he knocked on her door for hours before she decided to open it, two nights ago. She hasn't told him that he tried to excuse himself for not calling, for not worrying. She hasn't told Castle that she had all his things packed already — that all she had to do was shove the box in his arms and tell him 'It's over'. She hasn't told Castle about the angry tears that invaded her afterwards — not because she was heartbroken, but because she'd lost such precious, precious time with that man.
"There is no Josh anymore." She whispers and watches as he tries to contain the smile that threatens to take over his face. He's kind of adorable.
"Are — are you okay?"
She nods. "Yes, I think I am."
He sighs, moving to the door and getting his coat. She follows him and finds it strangely arousing when he picks his tie up from the rack and throws it over his shoulder. He looks like he's about to whistle and she finds it both endearing and wildly inappropriate.
"I'm picking you up tomorrow. Nine. Be ready." He tells her and opens the door, smiling softly. "Are you sure you'll be okay?"
She shrugs, leaning against the doorframe as he makes it through the hallway to the elevator. "I'll be okay." She whispers as he enters the elevator. As soon as the doors close, she allows herself to fall against the door. "Eventually."
Author's note:
Thank you so much for your lovely feedback on this story. I hope you enjoyed these small episodes. Be sure to let me know what you think, and I'll see you the next time inspiration strikes!