Because everyone's freaking out at me on twitter, and it's making me laugh, so I'm taking pity on them and writing chapter two at ONE AM IN THE MORNING.
Disclaimer: does that not say enough.
He drops his keys. Stumbles back against the door until it slams shut and he slides down it into a crumpled heap at the bottom. Kate's just watching him. She doesn't talk, she doesn't move, she just sits there and watches him. It's an intense stare, going straight through and hitting the very core of him. And all he can do is look right back. She doesn't look like she's been in a coma for six months. She doesn't like her car skidded on a patch of black ice and straight into the path of an lorry, her body broken and bent in among a twisted metal cage. She looks like she did on their honeymoon. Her legs are long and brown and strong, bare underneath – his shirt, she's wearing his shirt – and it's just how he remembers her on holiday, with sand between her toes and her skin tasting of sun cream and ocean. Remembers the way he'd spend minutes at a time with his arms wrapped around her waist and his mouth pressed against her shoulder because he just couldn't stand not tasting her.
And now, now it's almost like they're back there, and he wants to know that if he goes up to her and wraps his arms around her waist, would she smell the same? Or would she smell like hospitals, too clean and white? He wants to see. He so desperately wants to move from where he is and just pull her against him. He doesn't care what she smells like. It's been six months since he's been able to touch her, to run his hands across the smooth firmness of her abdomen, to feel her muscles tense as he teases her. Wants to spread his palms across the curve of her spine as she arches against him, feel her hot and wet around him. But he daren't move. He can't move. He's stuck there.
It's Kate that makes the first move. Slips off the stool and walks towards him. There's something not quite… right about it. Castle can't put his finger on it, but there's something off. Something other than the fact that he's just come back from her funeral and now she's standing in their loft – his loft? Fuck, he doesn't know – like it's no big deal. She kneels in front of him, eyes never leaving his face. She doesn't even look down to the floor to check where she's landed. Her eyes are constantly – always on him.
"Kate?" It comes out as a strangled sob, his throat constricting around it.
Kate doesn't answer. Just blinks at him. Kneels there with her hands clasped in her lap, the wedding ring dull in the shadows of the doorway. The… wedding ring. The wedding ring that he has in his pocket. He refused to let it be buried, needs to keep it. But there it is. The spitting image resting nonchalantly on Kate's finger. That doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense.
"Kate – Kate you're – I just buried – I went to your funeral. You're dead. How're you…" he trails off as Kate tilts her head at him, but there's no emotion in her face. Her features are blank, expressionless. So unlike the passionate Kate he knew. Knows. He doesn't understand this. It doesn't make any sense. He reaches out a tentative hand, prepares himself to watch her vanish in front of his eyes. But she doesn't. He can feel the slope of her cheekbone underneath his fingers, the soft powdery feel so achingly familiar to him. But she's cold. He can feel the chill radiating from her, feels it seeping into his skin.
"How are you here?"
Still silence. Still looking at him, she just won't stop. He forces himself up, forces himself away from her. He's barely got a grasp on the idea that she's gone as it is, and now he's trying to get his mind around this apparent miracle that's greeted him when he comes home. He stumbles into the study, flicks on the light so he can see. He's still finding it hard to breath, trying to force oxygen past the tightness of his throat with giant gasping breaths. Kate hasn't followed him, she's still crouched in front of the door. He doesn't know if she's turned her head to look at him, or whether she's just there and staring at the door but he daren't look back. He wants to. He's so hopelessly drawn to her, even if it's just a bump of a hip, a passing hand at her waist, he needs to know she's there. Needs to alleviate the craving he has for her, even if it's just for a minute. But he can't look back at her now, can't, because he knows that as soon as he does he's not going to be able to let her go. He'd have to pull her up by her hands, pulling her into him until the pieces fit, her head fitting just under his chin. And he's well aware that he'd stay there all night and the rest of the day if it just meant she was there.
His bed is as unwelcoming as it always has been in the past half a year, but he shucks his jacket, kicks off his jacket and pulls his tie from around his neck and sinks down heavily onto it. He's used to his bed being empty, it's been empty for six months and getting under the covers, leaving Kate's side untouched almost helps, keeping that ritual. It's not late. It's barely nine o clock, the sun is still up and the city is still alive with people, but he's exhausted. He just wants to lie in bed and not think and not do, and maybe spend a week not thinking and not doing before he tries to get his life back to normal. Or something resembling normal. Hell, he doesn't want normal. He wants extraordinary. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He can't cry. He really – once he starts crying he's not going to be able to stop.
The bed dips suddenly, the sound of the covers being drawn back. His heart stutters in his chest, the sound of his heartbeat drowning out any noises that Kate makes as she slides in next to him. Turns on her side. At least her stare isn't quite so intense. It's more pitying. Softer. He could almost bare to look at her, and if he wasn't screwing his eyes shut and trying to block her out. She's not real. She can't be real. It's just his imagination playing tricks on him. He chants it, over and over again and the monotony of it, not real, not real, not real, soon lulls him into a light sleep. He doesn't dream. He doesn't move. He just lies there, still in his shirt and trousers, the only sign of movement is the flicker of his eyelids, quick and jerky. The sun sets slowly, stealing the light from the room and the light from lamps outside soon take over. Hours pass, and it's not until the light from a new day has filled the room that Castle finally stirs. He grunts twists over on his side. The bed is empty – and it's almost like it's always been, like she never even slept in it.
Castle looks around his carefully, scanning the corners of the room, scrabbling out of bed to check the bathroom, his study, the kitchen. Upstairs is clear too. She's gone, and he's alone.