Dead to the World (8/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....
BECKETT
It's Christmas Eve. She can see the snow behind the windows of her room, watches as it falls silently to the ground. There is no work today, nothing to do. Nearly all of the agents went home already, only two stayed behind for security reasons. Because FBI agents have families they want to spend Christmas with too, right?
Nobody seems to care that she might also have a family she would like to spend her Christmas with. At least not by the pace they take care of things. Damn, she should have been home for months by now. It's fucking Christmas and she's still stuck here, in this prison of a room; four walls, table, chair, bed, meager possessions. Couple more books than she came here with. Still, the place looks as grim as ever.
The light outside is slowly fading, sun setting down soon. Due to the snowing, the light has been dim the whole day. Yet now it grows even darker and she simply lacks the energy to stand up and switch the light on. No reason to anyway.
She lies on the scratchy covers of her bed, bored, lonely and on the verge of tears. It'sWednesday today. Which means she won't even get her father on the phone tomorrow. On Christmas, out of all the times of the year.
She is so tired. Tired and fed up with this whole arrangement, thinking for the millionth time that month that she should have better taken her chances with the snipers. Then she regrets it instantly, because this is better, this is safer. If not for her then surely for Castle, his family, her father and their friends. If her being imprisoned here means they are at least a little bit safer with her gone, it's worth it. She knows this well although it doesn't always feel that way. The air inside her room is suffocating despite that she airs the room nearly constantly now, the place chilly and cold. She has still a difficult time breathing.
Sometimes, she doesn't know who she is anymore, is afraid she won't know how to function properly once outside the confinement of these four hated walls.
Enough. She has to do something or she'll completely disintegratein this stupid place; her limbs turning into wood, brain into mush.
She gets up from the bed and throws herself to the floor, forcing herself to do a hundred push-ups. She switched to her back, does another hundred of sit-ups, her pace frantic and desperate.
She collapses onto the ground afterwards, spent and sweaty, aching and still completely dissatisfied. There is nothing here to do and she is going crazy.
She dislikes television, there is a reason she's never had one herself. And she already read each and every book in the whole god-forsaken place at least three times.She can go online, but the internet only keeps on reminding her how quickly life is progressing out there, without her.
She misses her dad. She misses Castle. She misses Lanie. And Ryan, and Espo. She even misses Gates. How pathetic is that?
Tears push themselves into her eyes but she wills them away. They are no use to her.
She stands up, clicks on the switch, watching the room illuminate with light. Shedding her sweaty clothes, she decides to take a bath. Thank God this place has a tub rather than a shower. Tiny, old and rusty as it might be, it does the job.
Though no wine and certainly no candles, no scented oils and no bubbles, the water only so-so warm, she likes to submerge into the water and pretend. Pretend she is home, is somewhere else, anywhere really but here.
She takes the book with her, of course she does. It's the only thing she's read more than three times already, she can nearly recite whole passages out of it not, yet she cannot help rereading it. It makes her feel somewhat closer to him.
Carefully laying the book on the chair she strategically positions at the head of the bath, she lays her body into the tub, waiting as the water fills to the brim.
She opens the book where she last stopped at, somewhere in the first third. She likes this part. It's light and funny, and God so much them. Heat and Rook bicker and banter, yet at the same time make lovey-dovey eyeballs at each other, ready to jump each other any minute. Kate sighs.
She misses him.
She lowers the book, closes her eyes. Runs her fingers under the water, rests them on her knees. She slowly runs her digits up her thighs,imagines another time, another place, another set of hands. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, smiles a little. Oh, yes. So what if she likes to pretend a little? It's the only way of release that really helps her these days, even if only for a while. She tries not to invest into the emotional part too much though.
Later, she'll pick up her book opening it on the page where she last left off toonce again loosing herself in his words. He must have written these parts before she supposedly died. They are merry, cheery, and full of hope for her favorite couple. For *them*. A sigh escapes her lips. She knows exactly at which point the book breaks, where's the point where he picked up his writing once after she died. It's relatively a tiny portion of the book, just the last fifteen or twenty pages really, yet they still hurt to read.
Kate can read him through his words nearly as well as he can read her through her gestures, through the things she is *not* saying. And reading between the lines now, her heart aches for him. Sure, it hurts what he did to the characters, how he ended the series. Surprisingly, it hurts likehell seeing Rook die, because she knows that still he'd rather die himself if he had the choice than see her get shot again. That's why he chose to jump in front of the bullet over a year ago, that's what really tipped her hand when she was deciding whether to take this curse of a deal or not. Because he would always be willing to put her well being in front of his own. And that would eventually get him killed. Not just as her plucky sidekick but as her lover too. And she would not survive that.
She doesn't deserve him, God, she really doesn't. Sometimes, she just lays in bed, thinking what it was that drew him to her, what it was that made him fall in love with her. She can't see it. She is just a damaged person with a burdening past, way too selfish and guarded to let anyone love her the way they deserve. And yet, despite knowing all of this, he was always still there; for four damn years. Waiting until she came to her senses, until she saw what was literally dangling in front of her eyes. It was nearly too late. Damn, it *was* too late. A single night doesn't build a relationship. They've got nothing. She's got nothing. Just a memory of one single night together.
Sometimes, she wishes he'd move on and forget about her, carry on with his life and find something else to bring him joy, find someone else maybe. The next moment, she sees him with another woman in her mind, laughing, joking, smiling, kissing. And her jealousy flares to life. She is so selfish she isn't able to let him go even hypothetically, isn't willing to see him happy with anyone else. Despite that there's no person in the world who would deserve it more. She so desperately wants that for him. Only, she wants that for him with her. She isn't ready to give up on that idea just yet. She wants them to finally happen. She wants to make him happy, the same way he's been making her happy for so long. She doesn't even know if she is capable of that, if she can be that person for him, the person he needs to fulfill him. Oh but how she wants to.
God, when will she be allowed to walk out of here? She is so tired of waiting, so scared of the outcome. The longer she's here, the slimmer her chances to get him back.
She cannot understand how he did it for so long, how he was willing to live in a limbo, waiting in a single place for her to finally notice him, for the wonderful, infuriating, generous man he was. He did it for over a year, maybe years even, if his words are anything to come by. She is finding herself on the verge of despair and insanity not even eight months into the waiting. There is so much she has to tell him, so much she should never have waited to tell him in the first place.
She still hasn't figured out how he found out about her lie. They never had the chance to talk about it during their single night together. She regrets it now, the thing becoming sort of her obsession as she tries to figure out when and how he came to the certainty that she remembered her shooting; that she knew all along that he loved her. She's been obsessing about it for weeks now, wondering. The only people who ever knew she remembered her shooting were Burke and her. And there is no way Burke would betray the confidentiality, there's not even any reason for him to want to do so. She sees no other way how Castle could have known - and he *did* know, for certain. The *how* tortures her to no end.
Oh what she would only give for a single session with Burke now, to see a friendly face, listen to some unbiased, objective advice delivered with a pinch of humor and amusement at her expense. She likes that about him. How he seems to always be so at ease, how some of her problems seem to amuse him to a great extend. Makes them feel somehow smaller, less important, easier to overcome.
He always told her, although with not so many words, to go for it, go for Castle, once she'd feel ready. How she wishes she'd have went for that advice months and months ago.
The water in the bath is already cold.
Kate suddenly realizes she's been sitting in the tub, reminiscing for over an hour now, the water running cold long ago. She sighs, gets up from the tub, dries herself in the fluffy towel, the only thing she's requested from the FBI a couple of weeks into her hiding. Just a simple fluffy towel, nothing too extraordinary, just something to bring her more comfort.
She lets the water drain, switches the light off, closes the bathroom door behind her. She puts on her sleep attire - she realizes only now how chilly the room's gotten - crawls under the covers with the book. She bends over the side of the bed, picks up an old worn and very short pencil from the ground. Her back against the headboard, she starts to read. And write.
The book is hard to read at some places now; she's made so many notes into it already. It started with her second read of it. She randomly had a pencil in her hand then and something in the book caught her attention, made her want to argue over it with him. She likes to blame it on her loneliness and a moment of utter madness, but she took the pencil and scribbled a tiny - "This isn't even funny, Castle," right next to the offending piece of wording.
Ever since then, she started to inscribe the book with notes. Sometimes, they referred to the book, to the characters, to the plot. Sometimes to their real life inspiration, to the parallels, to their collective memories she recognized, where he must have taken the inspiration from at this or that in the book. Sometimes, she wrote out just her random thoughts, something that popped into her head while reading the book despite it being completely unrelated to the plot.
Sometimes - mostly - she directed her writing at Castle. Sometimes she went for funny, sometimes for flirty, sometimes for regretful and apologizing, sometimes just for sad or depressing. She teased him through his book, declared all the things she was never able to do in person, asked for comfort through his writing.
She skipped the last fifteen or so pages. Right after she first read them and they made her heart shatter and rattle in her chest, utterly shocked, she never opened those pages again. They stayed blank and she stubbornly kept on ignoring them, refusing to acknowledge them, telling herself that they were all as fake as her death.
By now, the book was nearly so full with scribbles and notes she had to take time to find available nooks and spaces to squeeze even more of her notes in. Sometimes, she reread what she wrote, agreeing or not, scrunching her nose in distaste or smiling when she hit a particularly funny line. She liked the book. And it was as closest to Castle as she could get at the moment. Apart from her father's fortnightly updates on him and his family, she had nothing.
Last time she talked with her dad, he revealed how Castle had invited him for Christmas dinner. Even presented her father with a Christmas gift, a set of nice fishing hooks her father says he's had his eyes on since like forever. She didn't know what to think of the gesture. She felt confusion, gratitude, affection, guilt, sadness and regret all at once; wrapped up in a surge of tenderness towards the man who always seemed to think about everybody else's needs but his own.
She never felt more impotent as that day, wishing to simply be able to pick up the phone, call him and tell him absolutely everything that's been on her mind and in her heart since she left his loft that morning with a promise of a safe and early return. A promise she's broken.
Kate closes the book, puts the pencil down. Opens the book again on the well worn dedication page instead. She asked her father, of course she did, how he managed to lure a dedication out of Castle without revealing her secret. He told her the story - the *whole* story - and she felt the urge to blush only twice. Which she calls an accomplishment.
She knew her father wanted to talk about it, wanted to know more, what it was exactly, this thing between her and Castle, but she had barely answers for herself, let alone for him. The only thing she knew for certain by the time she supposedly died was that their cards have been finally put on the table. He told her he loved her and she loved him but never told him.
She wishes was able to tell him then yet still hopes he felt it that night somehow, if not from her words than at least from her actions. She has no idea what they are now to each other though. She knows she loves him still, his absence and the solitude in her life making her feelings for him more pronounces and intense than ever before. Where there wasn't certainty before there's definitely certainty now. She loves Richard Castle with everything she has, with all his flaws and childishness and pettiness and stubbornness. How he feels about her, or more suitably, how he'll feel once she comes back, rising from the dead, she has no idea. And it terrifies her on a whole new level. In the past couple of years, Castle has been not always desired yet still such a strong presence in her life. She's come to count on him, depend on him, at all times. Now it's hard to imagine that all of this could come to an end, that it might be *him* to walk away this time.
She sometimes has these dreams that terrify her even in the morning still. In these dreams, she's finally free. She comes to his door, silently knocks. She waits, holding her breath, imagining his reaction. The door finally opens and he is there. She opens her mouth to speak, smile, but something isn't quite alright. She is looking at him but he isn't looking at her, but rather through her. She calls his name but he doesn't react, merely sticks his head out the door looking left and right, calls back over his shoulder into the loft: "There's no one here, probably just a prank," and with that readies himself to shut the door once again. She screams his name then, tries to grasp him, but she can't move, is pinned to her spot. He cannot even hear her. Because she's just a ghost.
She wakes in the middle of the night crying out his name, only to come to in the hollow, unfriendly walls of her room. Those nights, she is sure there is nothing that can make them right again.
And she just wants to go home.
TBC
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