Dead to the World (4/X)
Name: Dead to the world
Author: lizparker6
Pairing/Characters: Castle/Beckett, Jim Beckett, Martha Rodgers, Alexis Castle, rest. of the cast
Genre: Romance, angst, hurt/comfort, drama, future fic, but probably AU
Word Count: approx. 2900 words
Rating: lets say R, for some language
Spoilers: 4x23 Always
Summary: Months she’s been gone, months in which Castle’s been forced to believe that Kate was dead. Eight months in which he’s missed her, craved her, mourned her. Now she stands on his doorstep, two coffees in hands, and Castle’s world collapses. Direct spoilers for 4x23 Always.
Previous chapters here....
Thank you, wp1fan, for the beta.
BECKETT
They tell her *how* eventually. She needs to know, how she died, how it was delivered to the people she cared about, when her funeral is going to take place.
She is not in New York anymore, but she is not out of state. She is allowed to watch TV, listen to the Radio. She has, albeit a very restricted and monitored, access to the internet.
She Googles herself. She sees the news articles, sees the headlines screaming: "Former NYPD detective killed along with her assassin."
So she obviously didn't go out without a fight. Her apartment burned down again (God, nobody in their right mind will ever take her up for a tenant after this), two bodies discovered inside the flat, hers and Maddox's. Charred beyond recognition. DNA doesn't lie though, at least, that's what the public (and the people she cares about) is supposed to believe. There is no doubt whatsoever, the bodies belong to det. Katherine Beckett, age 32 and a man known as Cole Maddox, age unknown, the same man linked to her attempted assassination nearly exactly a year ago. There is a lot of speculation, Maddox probably seeking her out and trying to finish the job, resulting in the two of them fighting (her body had bullet holes in her, his numerous stab wounds, probably a kitchen knife or other similar tool), somehow they've started an open fire which spread while they were probably still fighting when it hit the gas pipes in her apartment and then there was a minor explosion that finished the place for good.
No other people were hurt, yet Kate cannot shake the words stating there were two burned bodies found at the scene. She is sick to only think who those bodies belonged to. The FBI tells her it's all been just fabricated, but she isn't naïve. It had to be convincing, after all, she worked at the 12th. Naturally her friends would look into that, look at it from every possible angle. Hence, it had to be made convincing.
They asked her, when they had snatched her, asked her if there was something she could provide that would make the body look more like her. She knew they were asking for a personalized item, maybe a tattoo, a special birthmark they could plant onto the body or directly into her autopsy report. A lot of pressure was put on her to make her death as believable as possible. Especially in the face of her family and friends, they couldn't afford any lingering doubts and no digging; they needed instant acceptance. She knew what they were asking for and she knew there was one thing that would make even Castle beyond convinced the body's been hers. It made her giving up her mother's ring on its golden chain that much harder. She kept the watch though and would part of her ring only after promised the precious piece of family heirloom would find its way into her father's hands immediately after the funeral, straight from the evidence box.
And so Kate Beckett dies and life goes on even without her. She works with the FBI, tries to work as quickly as possible, yet still, on some days there is very little to do. They wait on some evidence or other specific testimonies, or they're trying to unearth some files. Those days are the toughest on Kate, for they appear like days wasted.
Those days she often spends uselessly browsing the internet, more often than not Googling Castle's name. After 'her death', she wondered, of course she wondered, about the reaction of the media. The only thing she found though was this tiny column in the Ledger stating that Mr. Richard Castle attended the funeral of his deceased muse, along with mother and daughter (God, that sickens her to a point she nearly has to run to the bathroom) and wishes the matter to be left out of the press, asking to be left alone in order to mourn his loss properly. Out of respect, the newspaper says, it will grant the wish. She scoffs, knowing Paula must be pulling all of her strings in order to keep him out of the newspapers, away from all those yellow paged vultures. She never felt more sympathetic and sorry for him for being famous.
She browses his official webpage too, reads and rereads his Twitter account, but there's nothing but deadly silence on his end. Though there are hundreds of messages from his fans and readers, words of condolences and sympathy, there is not a single word fromCastle himself. She doesn't even want to start to dissect how that makes her feel. Mostly, she just feels empty. And terribly, oh so terribly lonely.
She is dead to the world, dead to Castle. Gone, irreversibly, being mourned, grieved. It will hurt but it will pass. And then they'll go on with their lives, start the natural process of healing. She wonders how much that will take, hopes she will be back before the reality of her death really starts to sink in. She is - for the millionth time - glad at least her father was allowed to know. She doesn't want to think what would happen to him if he wouldn't. Would he turn back to the bottle? She wants to believe not. She definitely doesn't want to find out.
The first week is the toughest. She works with the agents during the day, trying to reconstruct her murder board she used to have on her shutters - Maddox destroyed all of that before the FBI caught up with him, thank you very much - tries to retrieve all the information solely from her memory and link them all together with the information from Smith's file, finding the connections. Then late at night, when the agents finally leave for the day and she is left with only a handful of them staying behind for security reasons, the house suddenly becomes too quiet and she spends her evenings either rereading his books, going over her meager rescued photos collection or simply crying herself to sleep.
She knows who the Dragon is. She finally has a name, something she craved for fourteen years. But it's not enough, it's not nearly enough, not even close. She has a name but otherwise she has nothing and no one. And they were all so right, oh so very right. It doesn't mean anything when you are alone to celebrate it.
She hangs to her weekly phone calls with her father like to a lifeline, the only light on her horizon.
Weeks go by, has it been a month already? A whole month that she's been dead. She still Googles Castle daily, still gets disappointed at the lack of contact from him to the outside world. Ever since she knew him, he's always been online, no matter what, at least to some extend. Hell, even when being on an expedition somewhere in Siberia a couple of years back, he bragged how he kept online despite the closest civilization being hundreds of miles away.
Now there's no note, not a word, not a single fucking sad smiley, absolutely nothing. It upsets and unsettles her to a whole new level. She is scared for him, despite the fact it makes her feel stupid for thinking her death could have such profound effect on him. Of course he would be upset and crushed, he loves her after all, she's never doubted that. And given the circumstances of how they parted, she has no doubt the news would bring him to his knees. Yet it's been a month and there still isn't a single line, a simple announcement anywhere where he usually spends all of his free time. "C'mon Castle," she whispers under her breath as she once again browses his pages, "just a quick note, a single line, give me just this one sign, please." He doesn't and it hurts. It feels like he's dead too. She doesn't want to think like that.
She isn't allowed out of the house, not even the backyard. It makes her sick and edgy. There is a weight room in the basement, so she starts working out. She needs at least four hours a day just to be able to keep the edge off. The coffee at this place is crappy. Great. Another thing to remind her of Castle twenty more times a day. Just perfect.
She calls her father every Sunday evening, six to seven. In her fifth week (God, she just wants to go *home* already), he opens on a sentence that makes her heart sink in her chest yet flutter with the faintest hint of hope at the same time.
"Rick Castle called me last Thursday."
It's a huge opener, for neither has seen or heard of the man since the funeral. And even then, they didn't talk about it much. She remembers that awkward question she never thought to ask in her life: "So, how was my funeral?"
Her father's answer hasn't been a good one, yet she already expected that much. "It's been…bad, Katie. Just, …bad."
She had to gulp the fist that already formed in her throat in order to continue, offer something, anything, in means of some sort of compensation. "I'm sorry dad. I'm sorry that I made it so hard on you."
There was silence at the other end of the line. "It's not me you should be worried about," he said, and despite Kate knowing he didn't mean to accuse, she still heard it. It stung and she closed her eyes to the mental images assaulting her brain.
"How did he handle it?" she forced out at last.
"How do you think?"
She let the comment pass. "Did you two talk?"
He father's voice faltered. "He wasn't…he wasn't really in a state to talk." The statement made her double over. She sat down on the bed, the mattress dipping heavily under her frame, under the painful weight of her conscience.
"He had his mother and daughter with him though. They seemed to offer a great deal of comfort," her father offered quietly. A tear slipped down her cheek as she silently listened. God it was so morbid, so bizarre, but she wanted to hear it all, no matter how masochistic in made her, she wanted it all. So she kept on listening, hoping her father would take the hint and elaborate.
"Your friends from work came, too. Javier, Kevin and his wife Jenny, your friend Lanie too." She heaved a dry sob. "They were…God Katie, I cannot even begin to describe how they were, I was barely coherent myself…just the thought…," he stopped then, his own voice breaking.
"I know. And I am so sorry," she repeated lamely, "I am here though, I'm alive and well. And it's not for long, I promise dad, when I come back, we'll go to the cabin, the both of us, to one of those super dull fishing trips of yours. I'll make it up to you, I promise," she offered and it sounded lame even to her own ears. She could hear his grunt of a response. They kept quiet for a moment, her father trying to breathe through whatever his mind was guiding him to, she on the verge of tears again.
"A lot of your friends from the 12th came. The FBI chose a spot…the graveside…on the same cemetery your mother's been buried." He choked out. "Chose a different spot though, thank God." She felt sick of how much relief that little fact seemed to bring him.
"I am sorry," she chanted anew, but this time, he brushed her off. "It's alright Katie, I am just glad you are fine and safe. Better this way, I know. It must be hard on you too…"
She didn't want to go into detail about that. She really couldn't. Not without…
"Did Castle tell you…? About…" how was she to phrase this? She blurted out the words before she could really filter through her mind how that might come out. Damn.
"About what?"
"Uhm…where I was the morning I supposedly died?" her cheeks blushed inexplicably. She was being stupid, simply and utterly stupid.
"Uhm, no, should he?" her father asked, confused. She didn't know what to think, she didn't know why it seemed to break her heart that much more. What did she expect? That he would appear at her funeral and tell her father how he hooked up with his daughter the night before she died?
She shook her head violently, trying to clear it from those particular thoughts. "He brought flowers for you," his father uttered and she froze, knowing at that precise moment that she'd heard way more that she ever should have. "The most beautiful bouquet of blue forget-me-nots."
The phone nearly slipped from her grasp. Why, why would he torture her like that? Why would he do that to himself? "He brought one for your mother too. Stopped at her grave on his way home, I think."
She had to stop him, had to stop him now. She's been so *stupid* to even start the topic, why did she even ask? What was wrong with her? Did she get some secret thrill out of listening to how the people she loved missed her? How she ruined their lives?
"Dad, listen, I gotta go," her tone was curt and tight. She could barely keep her tears at bay. Maybe she should be really dead, maybe she deserved to be after willingly subduing the people she loved to this.
"Katie," he started, sensing her anguish, "I'm sorry, I though you wanted to -…"
"No dad, no, don't you apologize. I did want to know, I just…listen, they are calling me…and I gotta go." she lied, "I'll talk to you in a week, 'kay?" she didn't wait for his answer, she just hung up. It took all her willpower not to smash the phone into the nearest wall.
She wiped the tears angrily from her eyes (*she* didn't have any reason to be sad) and went to sit at her desk, opening her browser window. She went to his page, signed into her account and reread the first chapter of Frozen Heat - exclusively for subscribers only - for the hundreds time again. She didn't know why, but it gave her a strange sense of comfort. There were still things to look for in life.
His book was about to be released in a two to three month time frame, so he should be doing the finishing touches by now. Another thing she screwed up for him, another thing she could never make amends for. She wished she could be there with him now, the two of them crawled in bed together, him leisurely typing away on his notebook, offering a question or suggestion here and there, teasing her with possible spoilers and asking her opinion on tiny bits of details. It was one of her most vivid and alluring fantasies.
She looked at the cover of Frozen Heat again, loving the design, loving the writing, loving the book already. So maybe, if it offered *her* as much comfort just to read about them, then maybe *he* could draw some comfort from writing about them, her mind tried to bargain, for the alternative was gnawing at her insides. Hopefully, he had only the last finishing touches to add by the time she…died. She wondered if he would continue to write Nikki. She doubted it though; his muse was dead after all. Would he find a new one soon?
Ever since that first call after the funeral, whenever she talked to her dad, she asked if he heard from Rick Castle. But her father's answer's always been the same; "not since the funeral Katie, no". That was until today.
TBC
Thoughts? Reviews? Yes? Please?
Author: lizparker6
Pairing/Characters: Castle/Beckett, Jim Beckett, Martha Rodgers, Alexis Castle, rest. of the cast
Genre: Romance, angst, hurt/comfort, drama, future fic, but probably AU
Word Count: approx. 2900 words
Rating: lets say R, for some language
Spoilers: 4x23 Always
Summary: Months she’s been gone, months in which Castle’s been forced to believe that Kate was dead. Eight months in which he’s missed her, craved her, mourned her. Now she stands on his doorstep, two coffees in hands, and Castle’s world collapses. Direct spoilers for 4x23 Always.
Previous chapters here....
Thank you, wp1fan, for the beta.
BECKETT
They tell her *how* eventually. She needs to know, how she died, how it was delivered to the people she cared about, when her funeral is going to take place.
She is not in New York anymore, but she is not out of state. She is allowed to watch TV, listen to the Radio. She has, albeit a very restricted and monitored, access to the internet.
She Googles herself. She sees the news articles, sees the headlines screaming: "Former NYPD detective killed along with her assassin."
So she obviously didn't go out without a fight. Her apartment burned down again (God, nobody in their right mind will ever take her up for a tenant after this), two bodies discovered inside the flat, hers and Maddox's. Charred beyond recognition. DNA doesn't lie though, at least, that's what the public (and the people she cares about) is supposed to believe. There is no doubt whatsoever, the bodies belong to det. Katherine Beckett, age 32 and a man known as Cole Maddox, age unknown, the same man linked to her attempted assassination nearly exactly a year ago. There is a lot of speculation, Maddox probably seeking her out and trying to finish the job, resulting in the two of them fighting (her body had bullet holes in her, his numerous stab wounds, probably a kitchen knife or other similar tool), somehow they've started an open fire which spread while they were probably still fighting when it hit the gas pipes in her apartment and then there was a minor explosion that finished the place for good.
No other people were hurt, yet Kate cannot shake the words stating there were two burned bodies found at the scene. She is sick to only think who those bodies belonged to. The FBI tells her it's all been just fabricated, but she isn't naïve. It had to be convincing, after all, she worked at the 12th. Naturally her friends would look into that, look at it from every possible angle. Hence, it had to be made convincing.
They asked her, when they had snatched her, asked her if there was something she could provide that would make the body look more like her. She knew they were asking for a personalized item, maybe a tattoo, a special birthmark they could plant onto the body or directly into her autopsy report. A lot of pressure was put on her to make her death as believable as possible. Especially in the face of her family and friends, they couldn't afford any lingering doubts and no digging; they needed instant acceptance. She knew what they were asking for and she knew there was one thing that would make even Castle beyond convinced the body's been hers. It made her giving up her mother's ring on its golden chain that much harder. She kept the watch though and would part of her ring only after promised the precious piece of family heirloom would find its way into her father's hands immediately after the funeral, straight from the evidence box.
And so Kate Beckett dies and life goes on even without her. She works with the FBI, tries to work as quickly as possible, yet still, on some days there is very little to do. They wait on some evidence or other specific testimonies, or they're trying to unearth some files. Those days are the toughest on Kate, for they appear like days wasted.
Those days she often spends uselessly browsing the internet, more often than not Googling Castle's name. After 'her death', she wondered, of course she wondered, about the reaction of the media. The only thing she found though was this tiny column in the Ledger stating that Mr. Richard Castle attended the funeral of his deceased muse, along with mother and daughter (God, that sickens her to a point she nearly has to run to the bathroom) and wishes the matter to be left out of the press, asking to be left alone in order to mourn his loss properly. Out of respect, the newspaper says, it will grant the wish. She scoffs, knowing Paula must be pulling all of her strings in order to keep him out of the newspapers, away from all those yellow paged vultures. She never felt more sympathetic and sorry for him for being famous.
She browses his official webpage too, reads and rereads his Twitter account, but there's nothing but deadly silence on his end. Though there are hundreds of messages from his fans and readers, words of condolences and sympathy, there is not a single word fromCastle himself. She doesn't even want to start to dissect how that makes her feel. Mostly, she just feels empty. And terribly, oh so terribly lonely.
She is dead to the world, dead to Castle. Gone, irreversibly, being mourned, grieved. It will hurt but it will pass. And then they'll go on with their lives, start the natural process of healing. She wonders how much that will take, hopes she will be back before the reality of her death really starts to sink in. She is - for the millionth time - glad at least her father was allowed to know. She doesn't want to think what would happen to him if he wouldn't. Would he turn back to the bottle? She wants to believe not. She definitely doesn't want to find out.
The first week is the toughest. She works with the agents during the day, trying to reconstruct her murder board she used to have on her shutters - Maddox destroyed all of that before the FBI caught up with him, thank you very much - tries to retrieve all the information solely from her memory and link them all together with the information from Smith's file, finding the connections. Then late at night, when the agents finally leave for the day and she is left with only a handful of them staying behind for security reasons, the house suddenly becomes too quiet and she spends her evenings either rereading his books, going over her meager rescued photos collection or simply crying herself to sleep.
She knows who the Dragon is. She finally has a name, something she craved for fourteen years. But it's not enough, it's not nearly enough, not even close. She has a name but otherwise she has nothing and no one. And they were all so right, oh so very right. It doesn't mean anything when you are alone to celebrate it.
She hangs to her weekly phone calls with her father like to a lifeline, the only light on her horizon.
Weeks go by, has it been a month already? A whole month that she's been dead. She still Googles Castle daily, still gets disappointed at the lack of contact from him to the outside world. Ever since she knew him, he's always been online, no matter what, at least to some extend. Hell, even when being on an expedition somewhere in Siberia a couple of years back, he bragged how he kept online despite the closest civilization being hundreds of miles away.
Now there's no note, not a word, not a single fucking sad smiley, absolutely nothing. It upsets and unsettles her to a whole new level. She is scared for him, despite the fact it makes her feel stupid for thinking her death could have such profound effect on him. Of course he would be upset and crushed, he loves her after all, she's never doubted that. And given the circumstances of how they parted, she has no doubt the news would bring him to his knees. Yet it's been a month and there still isn't a single line, a simple announcement anywhere where he usually spends all of his free time. "C'mon Castle," she whispers under her breath as she once again browses his pages, "just a quick note, a single line, give me just this one sign, please." He doesn't and it hurts. It feels like he's dead too. She doesn't want to think like that.
She isn't allowed out of the house, not even the backyard. It makes her sick and edgy. There is a weight room in the basement, so she starts working out. She needs at least four hours a day just to be able to keep the edge off. The coffee at this place is crappy. Great. Another thing to remind her of Castle twenty more times a day. Just perfect.
She calls her father every Sunday evening, six to seven. In her fifth week (God, she just wants to go *home* already), he opens on a sentence that makes her heart sink in her chest yet flutter with the faintest hint of hope at the same time.
"Rick Castle called me last Thursday."
It's a huge opener, for neither has seen or heard of the man since the funeral. And even then, they didn't talk about it much. She remembers that awkward question she never thought to ask in her life: "So, how was my funeral?"
Her father's answer hasn't been a good one, yet she already expected that much. "It's been…bad, Katie. Just, …bad."
She had to gulp the fist that already formed in her throat in order to continue, offer something, anything, in means of some sort of compensation. "I'm sorry dad. I'm sorry that I made it so hard on you."
There was silence at the other end of the line. "It's not me you should be worried about," he said, and despite Kate knowing he didn't mean to accuse, she still heard it. It stung and she closed her eyes to the mental images assaulting her brain.
"How did he handle it?" she forced out at last.
"How do you think?"
She let the comment pass. "Did you two talk?"
He father's voice faltered. "He wasn't…he wasn't really in a state to talk." The statement made her double over. She sat down on the bed, the mattress dipping heavily under her frame, under the painful weight of her conscience.
"He had his mother and daughter with him though. They seemed to offer a great deal of comfort," her father offered quietly. A tear slipped down her cheek as she silently listened. God it was so morbid, so bizarre, but she wanted to hear it all, no matter how masochistic in made her, she wanted it all. So she kept on listening, hoping her father would take the hint and elaborate.
"Your friends from work came, too. Javier, Kevin and his wife Jenny, your friend Lanie too." She heaved a dry sob. "They were…God Katie, I cannot even begin to describe how they were, I was barely coherent myself…just the thought…," he stopped then, his own voice breaking.
"I know. And I am so sorry," she repeated lamely, "I am here though, I'm alive and well. And it's not for long, I promise dad, when I come back, we'll go to the cabin, the both of us, to one of those super dull fishing trips of yours. I'll make it up to you, I promise," she offered and it sounded lame even to her own ears. She could hear his grunt of a response. They kept quiet for a moment, her father trying to breathe through whatever his mind was guiding him to, she on the verge of tears again.
"A lot of your friends from the 12th came. The FBI chose a spot…the graveside…on the same cemetery your mother's been buried." He choked out. "Chose a different spot though, thank God." She felt sick of how much relief that little fact seemed to bring him.
"I am sorry," she chanted anew, but this time, he brushed her off. "It's alright Katie, I am just glad you are fine and safe. Better this way, I know. It must be hard on you too…"
She didn't want to go into detail about that. She really couldn't. Not without…
"Did Castle tell you…? About…" how was she to phrase this? She blurted out the words before she could really filter through her mind how that might come out. Damn.
"About what?"
"Uhm…where I was the morning I supposedly died?" her cheeks blushed inexplicably. She was being stupid, simply and utterly stupid.
"Uhm, no, should he?" her father asked, confused. She didn't know what to think, she didn't know why it seemed to break her heart that much more. What did she expect? That he would appear at her funeral and tell her father how he hooked up with his daughter the night before she died?
She shook her head violently, trying to clear it from those particular thoughts. "He brought flowers for you," his father uttered and she froze, knowing at that precise moment that she'd heard way more that she ever should have. "The most beautiful bouquet of blue forget-me-nots."
The phone nearly slipped from her grasp. Why, why would he torture her like that? Why would he do that to himself? "He brought one for your mother too. Stopped at her grave on his way home, I think."
She had to stop him, had to stop him now. She's been so *stupid* to even start the topic, why did she even ask? What was wrong with her? Did she get some secret thrill out of listening to how the people she loved missed her? How she ruined their lives?
"Dad, listen, I gotta go," her tone was curt and tight. She could barely keep her tears at bay. Maybe she should be really dead, maybe she deserved to be after willingly subduing the people she loved to this.
"Katie," he started, sensing her anguish, "I'm sorry, I though you wanted to -…"
"No dad, no, don't you apologize. I did want to know, I just…listen, they are calling me…and I gotta go." she lied, "I'll talk to you in a week, 'kay?" she didn't wait for his answer, she just hung up. It took all her willpower not to smash the phone into the nearest wall.
She wiped the tears angrily from her eyes (*she* didn't have any reason to be sad) and went to sit at her desk, opening her browser window. She went to his page, signed into her account and reread the first chapter of Frozen Heat - exclusively for subscribers only - for the hundreds time again. She didn't know why, but it gave her a strange sense of comfort. There were still things to look for in life.
His book was about to be released in a two to three month time frame, so he should be doing the finishing touches by now. Another thing she screwed up for him, another thing she could never make amends for. She wished she could be there with him now, the two of them crawled in bed together, him leisurely typing away on his notebook, offering a question or suggestion here and there, teasing her with possible spoilers and asking her opinion on tiny bits of details. It was one of her most vivid and alluring fantasies.
She looked at the cover of Frozen Heat again, loving the design, loving the writing, loving the book already. So maybe, if it offered *her* as much comfort just to read about them, then maybe *he* could draw some comfort from writing about them, her mind tried to bargain, for the alternative was gnawing at her insides. Hopefully, he had only the last finishing touches to add by the time she…died. She wondered if he would continue to write Nikki. She doubted it though; his muse was dead after all. Would he find a new one soon?
Ever since that first call after the funeral, whenever she talked to her dad, she asked if he heard from Rick Castle. But her father's answer's always been the same; "not since the funeral Katie, no". That was until today.
TBC
Thoughts? Reviews? Yes? Please?