I like this one. Don't think my beta friends did though... Oh well. Next chapter will be posted as soon as I can work out ch8 and as soon as Alex gets better. And the next one is super fluffy!
Thank you all for the reviews. They've been such an encouragement these last couple of weeks. Thank you.
With humungous thanks to:
Alex for always making me laugh, warning me about ISAs, and being an awesome being
Sky for being my twinsie and for prodding me gently every now and again about everything, for listening, for encouraging, for laughing with me, and for being patient. Happy birthday :)
Vicky for being the most amazing pseudo-big-sister to me and for knowing exactly what to say when. There are no words. Thank you.
Enjoy!
I don't own anything you recognise.
It's funny; when they first met, he had told her that the way her brow furrowed when she was thinking was cute - and to be quite honest, it was one of the first things that had drawn his attention to her. Now, as Castle perches on the edge of the chair clutching her hand, that same brow - though five years older and somewhat wiser - furrows as hazel eyes blink owlishly up at him before closing again in a silent sigh.
For several days the case has been trundling along with no real developments.
For the same length of time he's been making the daily pilgrimage to her bedside and coaxing her awake. She's finally off the ventilator and aware of her surroundings - but he's not sure if she knows anything else.
They still talk to her in soft tones as one might talk to a young child, reassuring her with the same tidbits of information each time she wakes.
"It's Rick, Kate."
"You're safe, sweetheart."
"I love you."
The only thing the bed-ridden detective can bring herself to mutter is his name, and Jim's. Always mumbled, slurred, scratched from the surface of her throat. Unemotional. A word to associate them with, nothing more.
It's hard on the others, too. Esposito, Ryan and Lanie spend more than the typical five cents on a card, more than one minute for an automatic signature - more than one visit to stop by and wish her well.
Observing, Castle realises just how much of a family they are.
To the untrained eye, Kevin is unaffected. To them, the pain and uncertainty is evident through the button in the wrong hole, the odd socks, the mismatched jacket and tie. An extraordinarily unkempt Kevin.
Javier mocks him. They all know it's his way of coping, turning big-brotherly, protective and taunting all at once. But Castle can see the tears begin to fall at the sight of their sister fighting to speak - and when she does, there is no recognition, no emotion, and perhaps that's what hurts the most. He's known her the longest, has helped her through the most, yet she can't dredge up the memories that lend themselves to their misshapen bond.
Lanie is the only one allowed to comfort the Hispanic detective, covering his grief by gently scolding Beckett for not recovering fast enough. Her extensive knowledge of exactly what her friend's body is going through can't be turned off, and instinctively she reaches for the charts, the pulse, the bandages, reproached only by the humiliated glance of her bedridden friend, and she turns soft again, running a hand along an unresponsive arm and keeping up a steady stream of girlish whitter.
It brings a sense of normality to a shaken, upturned world that for the coming years will be so, so different.
He's not sure whether she wants physical contact or not. There are times when a hand on her shoulder makes her flinch, sending sparks of anxious guilt through him, terrified he has hurt her more; other times she leans into every touch on her hand, turning her head the slightest bit towards his voice, and he swears he sees his longing reflected back at him.
The day always ends with a kiss of his fingertips to her cheek. She says his name. He smiles, and whispers hers back. Her gaze follows him out and he returns to a world without his Kate.
He wakes more than once in the night, panting hard, fingers scrabbling at the sheets. His eyes pulse red: the flash of non-existent blood from his nightmare, the fatigue burning in his brain in an unquenchable flame. He catches something soft on her side of the bed. It's a tiny piece of her - pyjama pants with little pink elephants on - that still smell of her in the morning and he brings it up to his face to breathe her in, inhaling her scent like it will refresh his soul. Like it will bring her back.
The soft cotton is still pressed to his cheek when the sun breaks through the curtains. He folds it tenderly to hide beneath her pillow, waiting for her return, or at least the next time he sleeps.
Everything reminds him of her. There's no one to share coffee with while he dances around the kitchen making breakfast, accompanied by the tinkle of her laugh as she watches him. There's no cheek to kiss before she darts out the door as the newspaper arrives, no hand to press a sandwich into, no arms to throw a jacket over. Instead, a sole mug on a still fresh paper, beckoning him as though he were a retired widower.
As the weeks wear on, lengthy visits turn into an hour before lunch. He tells her stories spun from a plethora of memories, egged on by a little squeeze of her hand or the hint of a smile.
She still can't say more than his name.
Her eyes speak to him more, the flash of relief when he whispers that he loves her, a broken reminder that he's in it for the long haul, no matter her future, whether she can live - survive - on her own or not.
Her favourites are when he recounts their memories. He re-enacts their first kiss with her, gently and without the previous heat, waiting for some reflex from her that pushes him away, tells him she's had enough and can't cope.
It sends thrills up his spine when she responds with a tiny moan - the most movement or emotion from her since she'd woken up.
There are times when he thinks she may be laughing at him, like when he insists his broken knee was not him showing off. He almost does it deliberately after that. Because her laugh is still what does it for him.
She is getting impatient. They can all sense it, and it is a minuscule relief when they finally hear from her doctor on treatment.
"The muscles in her arms will be tense," he warns, picking her wrist up like a ragdoll's and letting it lie in his palm. "I've put her on a tentative waiting list for physical therapy, but until we know how much her mind has recovered, it will be hard to start. For the time being, you can link your fingers with hers - " He laces his fingers through her spindly ones and digs the pads of his into the back of her hand when her fingers try to close in on themselves. "And move your hands in circles." He demonstrates, and Castle watches in alarm at the absence of a reaction from the detective. She simply lets her body be manipulated, and he knows, then.
She's given up.
"Dad?" Castle slams the door as he enters, sending a stack of papers to the floor. "Hey, Dad - what's the matter?"
He turns, and sees Alexis' concerned expression and he has the urge to get it off her face however possible, to erase it, to delete it, to turn it to the person who needs it.
He doesn't need concern. The woman in that bed who has fucking given up on her /life/ because one politician doesn't care about humanity- she's the one that needs the questions and the care and the concern and the help that for these last, insufferable weeks has been directed at him -
But she doesn't want it. Neither does he. But she needs it. And he doesn't.
"I just - I want to help her," he mumbles.
"So help her."
She didn't understand; she hadn't seen Kate, hadn't seen the look in her eyes as she gave up on recovery. "I can't. She- she doesn't want it."
Alexis gives a small snort of disbelief. "When has that ever stopped you?"
He shoots her a half-hearted glare. "It's stopping me now!"
"Why?"
When did his child turn into some shrink, asking questions that she had no right to ask because he didn't know the answer?
"She - she'll push me away again."
That's not the true reason, he knows. He's scared that if he attempts to help her, give her some rousing, encouraging speech, she'll see she needs him and give up on her independence, her individuality, her her.
He's scared.
She shrugs. "Go show her that giving up is the worst thing she could do."
"I can't - "
"Go!"
He can't take it anymore. He rounds on his daughter, ignoring the flicker of- fear, perhaps? - in her eyes. "I can't! You don't understand - I can't - she won't listen, she's too damn stubborn. I spend my life waiting for this woman and she could be snatched away by her own apathy." He collapses onto a chair and holds his head in his hands, before looking up at his daughter with a tortured expression. "If - Alexis, I don't know what I'll do if I can't get her back."
It'll kill her if she gives up.
It'll kill them both.
They're tied together, one person, each relying on the other for survival, knowing that one's weakness is the other's strength, and that their chain of two is as strong as its weakest link and right now, this... This setback, this bullet, this one moment in a lifetime of moments is going to be what breaks them.
The doctor encourages her to talk - but her silence is stronger than ever, and Castle finds himself caught up in the middle of a doctor-patient war as he loosens her wrists, apology clear in his eyes.
She ignores him.
For the first time, she ignores him. No twitch of a smile, no mumbled greeting, no returning squeeze. No nothing.
It burns, but he pretends he doesn't realise, to save them both the agony of wondering.
He can see the defeat in her posture. Her shoulders slump more than usual, her muscles tense and her expression dull.
The doctor goes on regardless, thinking she's listening and paying attention, but Castle can tell from years of Beckett-watching that she's caught up in her own world.
A world he isn't a part of.
It takes a week for the dam to break.
He falls asleep at her bedside, too exhausted to leave the room and call a cab - apparently, watching someone do nothing is more tiring than he thought. The whimper is enough to have him jerking awake, his hand being tugged violently and he stands, towering, hovering above her with hands outstretched to calm her, reassure her, show her, love her -
"Rick." His eyes dart to hers and see the raw panic. "Rick. Can't - can't - move - Rick - "
In a flash he's pressing the alarm (in his head he can feel her reprimand for pushing the hated red button).
"Just stay still - " he tells her. Then stops. Tries to back-track. Of course she'll stay still - she's flipping paralysed, she's not going anywhere. He flounders. "I - there's - "
Oh, forget it. It's going to take ages of creeping around her, watching what they say, making sure they don't aggravate the wound. She may as well get used to it.
"You're safe," he tries. She's caught his hand again with her left and he's losing feeling, but he knows she needs it. He knows what it's like to need an anchor - the times when he refused to let go of her for fear she'd slip away in the night brought to the front of his mind as her fingers squeeze his.
"Rick - I - it - " A tear rolls down her cheek. He can see her struggling to put the sentences together. The words are on the tip of her tongue, he knows, but they need a nudge to spring into life, a prod to send them rolling - phrases that get lost between her mind and her mouth.
"A word at a time," he encourages, damned if he knows if it's good for her.
"What - " She fights with the next sound. Her mouth works, jaw straining, throat clenching, but nothing happens.
"What happened?" he guesses, and he can tell he is right.
Oh God, he can't do this. He can't break it to her like this. She must know some of it: the nurses and everyone floating around her 24/7 must have said something, or the doctor must have explained more than just what he'd heard -
He opens her mouth to ask what she remembers, but stops. That particular path didn't work so well last time.
"What do you know?" he tries, carefully watching her to see her reaction.
"Arm - " she manages, before breaking off with a huff of frustration and banging her good hand (still holding his) on the mattress.
He swallows. "Yeah - I mean - your arm is - well, it's not just your arm - "
He can't. He can see her expression spiralling quickly and he stalls, taking a step back as the door flings open to allow the doctor access. He gestures vaguely towards the exit, nearly tripping over himself in his haste.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Kate," he mumbles, already out of the door and turning away.
But as soon as he steps outside, a blanket of guilt settles over him. He's not strong enough for this. She needs him, and he can't even look her in the eye long enough to tell her the truth. He hates himself for not saying it outright, for not putting her at ease with the fumbling words that she will hear over and over again.
If he can't do it, how will she?