A darker Jim story.
Trigger warning: addiction, alcoholism, relapse
Not a Caskett story (maybe a little if you lower your Caskett standards).
Set between S3 and S4, during the hiatus.
Pain
She knocked on the door for the second time, not expecting any different outcome.
She could hear it in his voice when he had called her, even with the staticky crackle caused by the reception dead-zone that encompassed their cabin: he wasn't okay.
On the drive back to the city - something she was not entirely ready for - she replayed the one-sided conversation over in her head, again and again.
Dad, where are you?
Dad, what's wrong?
Dad, have you been drinking?
The only coherent words she had managed to pull from him where I tried and I'm sorry.
After knocking again - banging her fist so hard against the door the pain coursed through her palm, wrist and forearm - she gave up on formalities, on patience, on trust.
She pulled her keys from her coat pocket, her fingers fumbled as she tried to find the small silver key amongst the many on her keyring. Her hand shook uncontrollably as she tried to slot the key into the lock but when she finally got the door unlocked she took a slow, steadying breath before pushing it open.
The house - her childhood home, the heart of so many of her fondest memories - was dark and musty; it evidently hadn't been opened up and aired out in weeks, maybe even months. It was far from the welcoming home it had been not that long ago.
She forced her feet to move, to step past the threshold.
"Dad?" she called down the dark, narrow hallway.
She pulled her keys from the door and tossed them into the bowl by the entrance. She shut the door behind her and took a few small steps further into the house, reaching for the light switch as she did. The orange-brown light shade gave the illusion of a sunset in their hallway as golden light illuminated the narrow path into the house.
She proceeded slowly, the fear of what she might find made her nauseous.
Rounding the corner, she entered the kitchen and flipped on the light. The benchtop was littered with unwashed dishes and empty bottles.
She sighed and swallowed the lump of disappointment that sat constricting in her throat.
Almost eight years sober, carelessly thrown away.
Her disappointment bubbled into anger. With a huff, she grabbed the nearest bottle and stormed toward the trash. She stomped her foot on the pedal and the lid flew open, exposing her to the putrid smell of discarded, spoiled food.
"Dad?" she called out again, louder than before, as she tossed the bottle in the trash bin and strode purposefully toward the back of the house; each step perfectly in sync with the thundering beat of her wounded heart.
She forcefully pushed open each door she passed, ignoring each loud bang of door handles colliding with walls as she hastily checked each room.
"Dad!"
She pushed open the bedroom door and stopped dead in her tracks at the sight before her: unmade bed, beer cans scattered across the bedside table and floor.
He'd let her down, again.
Made promises that he obviously couldn't keep.
And, stupidly, she had believed in them all. Believed in him.
Rage boiled in her blood and watered in her eyes. The laboured rise and fall of her chest a reminder of just how painful life could be.
The bullet she had barely survived was nothing in comparison.
She considered walking away, turning her back on him like she felt he had done to her all those years ago. She could get back in her car, drive back to the cabin and pretend none of this had happened. She could go back to her healing - both mental and physical - as he had encouraged her to do.
Get out of the city with me, Katie.
He had practically begged to be by her side through this, to help her as she healed. After two long, antagonising weeks he left. In the end, her struggle must have been too much for him to just sit by and watch.
She couldn't deal with this, though; not right now. She didn't have the energy to deal with her own mess, let alone his.
She turned slightly and pressed her back against the door frame as she battled with her conscious.
The battle was fruitless, though. She knew she could never leave him like this.
Wiping the tear that had spilled free, she called out once more. "Dad?"
She heard a low groan echo out from the ensuite; a helpless, wounded kind of sound that shattered her heart into a million tiny pieces. She inhaled shakily and slowly inched closer to the closed door, summoning her strength to get through this.
"Dad?" She spoke softly as she pressed her palm to the white gloss coated door. "It's me- it's Katie. Can you let me in?"
She tapped gently on the door, but he did not acknowledge her.
"I know you're in there."
She wrapped her fingers around the cold, stainless steel doorknob but it wouldn't move.
"Dad!"
She jiggled the knob again, panic falling to the pit of her stomach like grains of sand flowing through an hourglass.
She blinked back her tears and banged the side of her fist against the door three times; bang, bang, bang! Each bang reverberated through her chest.
"Unlock the door!"
Pressing her forehead to the door, she gave in. The tears fell, silently but freely, as she tried her hardest keep each breath steady.
"Please let me in," she pleaded.
Nothing.
She stepped back as anger filled her body. She inhaled, filled her chest with the stale air that filled the room and let it all out again in a long, pained scream as she banged her hand against the door again. Seamlessly, as she leant her body against the door and slipped to her knees, her screams turned into sobs.
"I'm sorry," she cried as she pulled her knees to her chest. "I'm so sorry."
Sorry that this was their life: battling demons that come back stronger every damn time.
Sorry that she had inadvertently let his demons back in by refusing to back down, by coming face-to-face with her own mortality because of some illogical fear that she was letting her mother down.
Sorry that, now, they both lived in fear waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Mostly, she was sorry that she didn't see the signs earlier. That things had gotten this bad and that she had allowed herself to be blindsided by it.
She turned her head, pressed her ear against the door and listened carefully. Her hiccupped breath was the only thing to break the silence until a low, sorrowful moan echoed through the room.
"Dad!" she called, a sense of hope burning through her. "Dad, can you hear me?"
"Katie..."
She shifted to her knees and wiped her tears.
"I'm here," she reassured him. "I'm right here. Dad, I need you to stay away from the door."
She pulled herself to her feet and waited, but received no answer from him.
With no way to know if he was okay, she was terrified of what she might find on the other side.
Taking a step back, she centred herself and focused on the job at hand: getting through this door.
She kicked the door, but it did not budge. With a grunt, she kicked again; nothing. She braced herself, steadied her forearm across her abdomen and threw her shoulder into the hard wood slab.
"Shit," she groaned as waves of pain surged through her shoulder, sucking in air through gritted teeth.
She pressed her palm to the still-healing hole in her chest.
Bracing herself for impact again, she threw her entire body weight against the door.
"Gah," she cried out over the sound of wood cracking.
She took a deep breath and blinked back the tears brought on by the unimaginable pain she felt in her upper body.
"Dad-" She squeezed her eyes shut as the room began to spin, the pain that seared through her was debilitating. "Dad, is there something against the door?"
Still no answer, but she refused to give up.
She opened her eyes and took a step back.
She inhaled deeply through her nose, let the air sit in her chest before exhaling slowly; just like her physio had shown her. She knew this was going to hurt, no amount of bracing herself could stop that. In and out, she took another slow breath.
She launched herself, shoulder first into the cracking barricade keeping her from her father. She heard the crack of splitting wood and the clang of the lock mechanism breaking under the force of her body as she fell through the door and crashed into the vanity on the other side. The marble countertop pushed into her ribs as she landed, just a fraction too slow to have saved herself.
The unmistakable stench of booze and vomit assaulted her senses and her hand flew to her face to cover her mouth and nose.
"Oh, God!"
She oriented herself and steadied her balance as she looked around the room. Her eyes landed on her father: slumped in the corner, leaning against the toilet.
The all too familiar scene hit her like a freight train, ploughing through her and leaving her breathless.
Her bottom lip trembled with emotion as she dropped to her knees beside him.
"Dad," she whispered shakily, delicately touching her fingertips to his cheek.
The man in front of her - the man that her fragile heart refused to accept was the same man who had fought so hard to get better... for her - groaned and pushed her hand away, purposefully pulling himself from her touch as if it burned his skin. He forced his eyes to meet hers, but only for a brief moment.
His eyes closed and his head rolled to the side as he began to weep.
"M'sorry Katie," he mumbled.
"Shh, it's okay," she whispered as she pulled him into her arms. "I'm here now. We're gonna get you some help."
Paramedics made their presence known by calling her name as they made their way through the house, their voices growing louder as they moved closer.
She couldn't even remember calling them; everything just kind of faded to darkness as she switched into autopilot. It was almost as if she had blacked out; possibly from the pain that still seared through her chest and ribs.
Or the shock of her father's relapse.
Or perhaps it was her brain's way of blocking out the rush of memories that came flooding back from the last time they had been in this situation. That felt like a lifetime ago, but the heartache felt as fresh as if it were just yesterday.
She moved slowly - the world around her a blur - as they moved her father onto the gurney and wheeled him away. She trailed behind them, her hand gliding along the wainscoting as she stumbled down the hallway.
She kept the glow of streetlights that streamed through the opened front door in her sights, allowed it to guide her as her brained remained clouded by fog.
The light dimmed as a shadowy figure stepped through the entrance.
"Kate?"
She stopped, blinked her eyes to focus on the figure that had side-stepped the gurney and now stood in front of her.
"What are you doing here?" she asked as she looked into Castle's crystal blue eyes.
His eyes narrowed, but not in anger.
She stood, confused, as he studied her in silence.
"You don't remember calling me?" he asked, his voice thick with concern.
She opened her mouth to say something, but no words would form.
No, she didn't remember calling him. But that didn't surprise her, she could barely remember anything, really.
"I called the ambulance on the way here," he explained.
"Oh."
She looked around, unsure of what she was supposed to do now.
"Kate, are you okay?"
Castle reached out to comfort her, but she flinched away from his touch. The sudden movement caused a twinge of pain at her side and she winced.
"Maybe you should go in the ambulance with him," he suggested, knowing better than to mention the obvious pain that she was in.
She shook her head and her eyes darted around aimlessly. "No, I have to clean up this mess."
"I can do that."
She met his eyes again; fixed on her with his same intensity that she had grown accustomed to.
His mere presence was comforting; and that filled her with a guilt she couldn't deal with right now. Not on top of everything else.
"It's not your problem, Castle," she said before turning and walking back to the bedroom.
He followed her, his eyes taking in the heart breaking scene that unfolded as he moved further into the house.
To an outsider, it really wouldn't seem that bad. But knowing the story, knowing the history here, he couldn't leave her to deal with this alone.
"You're my friend," he stated as he entered the bedroom, just a few steps behind her. She turned to face him. "And you need my help."
Friend? Some friend she was: she hadn't spoken to him - not a call, not a text - since that day in the hospital when she had asked him for space.
That was two months ago. Two months of silence from her; and yet, here he was when she needed someone. When she needed him.
"Besides," he continued. "You really should be with your father."
She shook her head again, her emotions threatened to bubble to the surface and it was taking all the energy she could muster just to keep herself from crying.
"I can't, Castle," she whispered, too scared that if she spoke any louder he would hear the cracks.
"Okay. That's okay," he assured her as he reached out to her again.
This time, she didn't move away from his touch. He wrapped his hand around hers and tugged on it gently, pulling her into his embrace.
He was warm; wrapped in his arms she felt safer than she had in months. Safe enough to let go.
She brought her hands to his chest and clenched her fists around the material of his shirt as she began to cry.
He rubbed his palm up and down her spine, soothing her, calming her.
"I'm not leaving you, Kate, so you may as well just tell me what you need me to do."
As soon as she managed to regain her composure, she pulled herself from his arms and scanned the room around them.
Honestly, she had no idea where to start.
"There's, uh- there's trash bags in the kitchen, under the sink," she informed him.
"I'm on it."
Castle left and the room instantly felt darker, colder. She stepped back and lowered herself onto the end of the bed, exhaling slowly as she looked around at the mess.
She really had hoped she wouldn't find herself in this position again; scared and alone as everything she held dear slipped through the cracks, swallowed by the darkness that seemed to seek her out.
"You need a minute?" Castle asked, bringing her from her thoughts.
She looked over to see him standing in the doorway; a roll of trash bags in one hand and an ice pack in the other.
"For your side," he explained as he passed her the ice pack.
"Oh. Thank you."
She inhaled sharply as she pressed the pack to her ribs; the mix of pain and cold stole the air from her lungs.
"I'm not stupid enough to request you actually go and see a doctor, but I will just casually mention that it would make me feel better."
She rolled her eyes. "I'll keep that in mind."
"That's all I ask," he said.
As she watched him pick up the carelessly discarded cans, one thing became abundantly clear to her: this time she wasn't alone.