Dead to the World (15/X)

[lizparker6]

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. 4500 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....



I want to tell you all how much I appreciate all your reviews. I haven't been replying to them since I am still on vacation and have very little time only, but I am keeping and flailing over each and single one of them. :)

CASTLE AND BECKETT

It takes nearly a week until he finally finds the courage to face her again. He comes unannounced, appearing at Jim Beckett's door one chilly Wednesday afternoon, suddenly unsure whether he should have called first. Maybe they aren't even home.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Castle brings his hand up and knocks on the front door somewhat hesitantly, the gesture lacking his usual flair and resolve.

He waits and waits, but nothing happens. It appears that indeed, nobody is home. He's surprised to find himself disappointed. He turns on his spot, looking around. He's never been here, only had the address from Jim from a couple of months ago. It's not an unsafe, but a little run-down neighborhood. Probably used to be flourishing suburbs a couple of decades ago, but was later apparently left behind by the younger generation to the older residents who didn't have the strength to keep the place up to date. It's quiet here though, and Castle can understand why Jim would pick to live here.

Snow started falling to the ground again sometime last evening, and whereas it poses just a nuance that gets kicked to the curb in a dirty wet heap as quickly as possible in Manhattan, here it covers the ground in a nice, soft white layer. The light is already disappearing quickly, it's something after four in the afternoon and Castle knows that darkness will fall soon.

He doesn't move, stands there, still looking around, contemplative. So this is where Kate lives now.

A tiny rattle of a key in a lock from behind makes him jump and turn just in time to see the door creek open an inch, then a little wider. The sleepy, disheveled head of Jim Beckett appears soon after, his eyes puffy from what appears to be sleep.

"I thought I heard a knock," says Jim victoriously, shooting a warming smile at Rick and his stomach, for whatever reason, flips over. The door opens wider in an inviting gesture and with hands still hidden deeply in his coat's pockets, Castle finally enters.

He stands in a dark corridor for a short moment until a lamp flickers to life over them, bathing the place in warm, welcoming yellow light. Castle looks around him curiously, cannot help himself, carefully taking everything in, all at once, until Jim's extended hand nudges his arm and he realizes he's been rudely staring and gawking around the man's place for quite a while. He clears his throat, shakes Jim's hand while feeling a little embarrassed, but Jim merely smiles, inviting him further into the house.

The corridor is narrow and long, stairs to the upper floor on one side, a couple doors on the other. Jim leads him down the corridor and they pass a kitchen, a bathroom and a closet probably, reaching the living room that's at the very far end. Castle cannot help but compare the house to his loft, then to Kate's former apartment. It appears they both prefer a complete opposite type of living, wide and open spaces with interconnected rooms and less compartmentalizing.With more freedom.

The living room is nice though. And cozy. It's crammed with lots of stuff, but not in an untidy kind of way, with lots of comfortable furniture and small lamps that give soft, warm light. A TV stands in the far corner, along a narrow wooden coffee table in the middle of the room. There's a couch and three armchairs, each of a different design. And a small case filled with books looking as if they came from another era. There's nothing new, they're all probably classics. Castle's fingers itch to run his fingers through their spines, intrigued what lurks in the depths of Jim Beckett's library. He's of the opinion that what people have in their libraries says more about them that they could probably ever realize and give credit to. Yet he withholds himself; that's not why he's here. Maybe one day though…

Jim sits down into one of the armchairs, mutes the television, a rerun of an NHL game, then points to another armchair directly from his.

"Please Rick, sit."

Castle shrugs off his coat and sits as he is told, feeling only slightly awkward. "I was wondering if I could see Kate," he suddenly blurts out, shutting his eyes in embarrassment at the eagerness in his voice, cursing his quick mouth for the umpteenth time.

Jim doesn't seem to mind his obviously rude demeanor one bit. He only nods slowly, contemplatively. "Of course," he says. "She is not home at the moment, though."

"Oh," Castle replies, lost for any other answer. Something in Jim's squirming posture unsettles him. "I hope everything's alright," he adds, uneasiness filling his insides.

"Oh, yes," answer Jim, but he won't meet his eyes.

"Where is she?" asks Castle, not even concerned if he sounds edgy or rude. He just wants his answer. Because she is alright, right? She's fine, he tells himself. Jim must catch on his nervousness, for he hastens with an answer.

"Oh no, no worries Rick, Katie's alright. She just went to see…an old friend," he says after a short pause and something in Castle's chest flares to life. An old friend?

"Oh," he grunts dumbly again, the tone of his voice and piercing look more of a challenge than a polite, slightly disinterested reply he wishes he was able to give. Jim sags a little in his chair, averts his eyes.

"She went to see her therapist," he says with a defeated posture and Castle can distinguish a slight trace of regret and deep-seeded sadness in the man's words. "See, yesterday was the anniversary of Johanna's death," he adds quietly, his eyes glistering in the dark. And just like that, that fierce fire Castle now recognizes as stupid, unfounded jealously is put out in a flash. And he feels ashamed.

"I'm so sorry Jim," he says, his words never feeling more inadequate. Jim just shrugs, gives Rick a tired, sad smile. 'What can you do?' it says. Castle wishes there was something he could do.

"I'm glad she went," says Jim, "I think it will help her clear her head." Again, he appears to shrug the matter off nonchalantly, but Castle recognizes the resignation of somebody who tried and failed to help a loved one. So he just nods his head back at Jim, despite the fact that it makes him feel like a complete idiot. He's sitting in front of this man, who's offered him so much comfort and caring words over the past couple of months, now completely unable to offer any kind of verbal or other comfort in return. And it makes him feel even worse. After all, he's supposed to be the one with the words. He nearly scoffs at that thought. Some writer he is.

"She should be home any time now though, probably just took her time to return from the city. The lines aren't always too reliable in this cold."

Castle wants to ask about her car, her bike, and why she's using public transportation, something he's never seen her do before, but he bites his tongue. "Can I offer you something to drink while we wait? Tea, coffee, water?" asks Jim and Castle finds he's indeed rather thirsty.

"Some tea would be nice," he says, surprising himself with his choice of drink.

"Be right up. Make yourself comfortable," says Jim, leaving the room in a few brisk strides.

He sits there, a bit awkward, the coat still resting in his lap, lost as to what to do with himself. His eyes once again stray to the small bookcase in the far corner of the room, calling his name like a siren, pulling him in with a nearly magnetic force. Later, he will blame the writer in him, that boyish curiosity that still gets him into trouble at times. Right now however, he just jumps up from his seat, crossing the room quickly until he's standing right in front on the few shelves. There are not more than fifty books here, a rather small collection. All in really old bindings though. He runs his fingers over their spines, can't help but notice at once that they've all been dusted off only recently, probably moved and shifted in their places too.

Kate. Something in his heart seems to melt at the thought, at even such a small gesture.

There are classics mostly, lots of Russian, Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. Some French too, Moliere, Maupassant, Balzac. Some of the books seem to be missing, being taken out of their respectable places, a gaping hole left in their wake. He knows who took them without a doubt and his heart surges with tenderness. Some things will never change. It's a good feeling. His mind conjures up an image in which Kate, wearing nothing but a long button down - one of his - disheveled hair and rosy cheeks, barefootly tiptoes across his study, perusing his own book collection, her long delicate fingers caressing the spines of his own books, carefully looking from one to the other, picking what she might like.

A surge of longing flares in his chest at that, the chilling icy knot in the pit of his stomach that was his constant companion over the past few months, starting to melt at that picture. He suddenly realizes how much he wants to have it, how he can have it, if he'll find it in his heart to forgive her, to trust her again, to move on. He sighs, wishing it was only that simple.

He hears shuffling behind his back and he quickly turns to watch Jim return with a tray holding two cups of steaming tea and a matching sugar bowl resting in the middle. He uses old fashioned china, Castle notices, and he feels warmth spread through his chest at the sight, for more than one reason.

He returns to his place, sits down into his designated armchair, waits for Jim to serve him his tea, then adds two spoons of sugar himself. He seems to enjoy sugar, lots of sugar, again. He stirs the liquid, which emits a calming, herbal smell.

"Kate's favorite, chamomile and hibiscus," says Jim, as if reading Rick's thoughts and Castle feels his cheeks flush.

They sit there for quite a while, sipping their coffee and talking about the game currently running in the background on Jim's TV. They both know it's nothing like the comfortable conversations they used to share in the previous months, but they are both trying, and it feels good. It's nearly half past five when they hear the front door finally open and shut with a low thud. Castle's cup rattles in its china saucer as he hastily plops it back down, his nerves suddenly frayed. She's home, Kate's here.

"Katie?" her father shouts into the dim corridor; she didn't switch on the light.

"Not now, dad," she calls back softly and there's a strange strain and tired quality to her voice, like she is very close to crying. They can hear her scuffle around the place, getting off her shoes and coat before they can hear the creak of the stairs. Panic surges through Castle. It feels strangely, irrationally, like she's leaving again, running away.

"There is somebody here to see you," he father calls after her, his voice holding that hopeful quality Castle came to admire, and the creaking of the stairs stops immediately. There is a pause, silence, then the stairs resume their annoying noises, quicker and louder now. Her feet hit the ground and he knows she's in the corridor, will appear in the doorway any time now. His heart picks up its tempo.

She must pause her quick strides in front of the room, because she comes inside with careful, slow steps, her eyes finding first her father, then finally turning to Castle. The world seems to stop for a moment as they gaze at each other.

"Castle," she finally says on a slightly desperate exhale, her voice more than a little breathless. It makes him feel oddly gratified.

"Hey," he utters back quietly. They stay like that for a moment, then, "I was wondering if we could talk," he offers as he finds his voice again, his tone an insecure suggestion. It seems to snap her out of her shock.

"Yeah, of course," she says, stumbling over her words in her haste, "C'mon," she says, gesturing for him to follow her, shooting a questioning look to her father, who only nods his head at her in return.

Castle jumps up from his seat, still holding his coat in his hands, looking at her expectantly and quickly following her when she turns to leave the room. It feels so familiar, the following, it brings an involuntary grin to his face, a giddy feeling of excitement. They walk back through the corridor silently and step up that awfully shrieking stairwell until they come to a door in front of which she stops all of a sudden. She looks back at him, her eyes huge, suddenly unsure. Vulnerable.

He realizes then, this must be her room, her kingdom, her new home. And she is unsure to share it with him. His heart sinks in his chest but even still, he says; "It's alright. You don't have to…we can go out, sit somewhere." The words are lame, but they at least manage to offer a way out for her. She contemplates him for a while, her once bright eyes dimmed, whether from the darkness of the corridor or something much deeper he's not sure.

"It's alright," she says on a whisper, and something tight and painful unfurls inside of him, allowing him to breathe more freely. She turns the doorknob and resolutely opens the door for them, their gaze never breaking.

They step into the room and he cannot help but look around curiously, fascinated. So this is Kate Beckett's world.

He's been in her apartment before, in both of them, in fact. He's seen her homes as well as working space back at the 12th, used to know her desk and chair by heart. But something about this room, this single room that comes to represent her whole life now, breathing Kate's name in thick, condensed waves, makes it nearly surreal.

He steps further into the room, Kate momentarily forgotten in favor of her own mini-world. It's simple, neat, tidy. Not overstuffed; the huge beautiful circular window at the far end of the room providing it with an airy quality. There is a bed, a desk and a chair. A door probably leading to a closet, another to an adjacent bathroom. He soaks it all up, this private world of Kate, something he was so scared he would never get a glimpse of ever again.

The room is nice indeed, and God it even smells like her, is thick with the scent he's come to associate with her over the years. And then it's the small details that make it so much like Kate that he notices. A nice warm duvet covering the bed with a couple of funky, patch-work pillows. A huge world map that looks like it has seen better days - oh there is a story there, he is sure of it - plastered over half of the wall behind it. A nice inconspicuous lamp near the window, shadowing an old armchair - ha, a reading nook - and an ancient wooden clock sitting on the very end on a book shelf, filled with…his heart stops.

Half of it is filled with his books.

Only then does he realize what this is, what she's really allowed him to see, what this room represents. He turns back to her, overwhelmed into speechlessness. She is standing there, quietly observing him, appearing peaceful if not for the twitchy, nervous quality in her hands as she keeps twining and twisting her fingers into the fabric of her shirt. Her eyes are glistering in the light of the room, two open pools, quiet and willing him to see everything she's been hiding for so long. And he doesn't know what to do with it, this sudden gift of her.

He isn't used to this Kate, to such openness, such trust. He turns back to the room instead, his eyes taking everything in, this time with a less frenzied zeal. He doesn't want to appear as a complete creep after all. He forces his eyes from the bookshelf despite his every nerve screaming in the urge to rush over there, decides he'll let her decide when or even if she wants to show him that or not, a small gesture of his own, in return for allowing him into her most private space.

He hangs his coat onto the chair at the desk, rubs his hands absentmindedly before he turns back to her. "Nice room," is the only stupid thing that comes to his mind to say.

Surprisingly, she cracks a smile. The whole room seems to light up with that one little twitch of her lips and he is once again struck speechless. Oh how he's missed that smile.

She shrugs, the smile still playing over her lips, her eyes shying away at last. "Did the best I could." She shrugs again, self-conscious.

"I think it's perfect," he says with more than a little enthusiasm, once again forgetting to filter his brain, mentally kicking himself. But if her accompanying smile is anything to come by, it was the right thing to say.

"Thank you."

He allows his eyes to run over her, once again. After their fiasco of a reunion a week ago, Castle realized he barely took the time to properly look over her then. He misses it, the ability to do so, to observe her freely, sometimes on the receiving end of an answering scowl, sometimes a challenging smirk. He observes her now and she lets him, he can clearly see that, that she is letting him, despite feeling slightly uncomfortable.

Her father was right. She must have lost at least ten pounds, her cheekbones protruding more than ever, more than when she came back working at the precinct after she's been shot. She looks small, short without her power heels. And pale, definitely too pale, her skin sinewy, with dark smudges under her eyes. Her once vibrant curly hair is hanging limply around her face, supplying her with an unhealthy, ghastly look. Still, she is his Kate, the woman he…he what? Loved? Buried? Mourned? Still loves? He doesn't know anymore.

"Castle, you are staring," she says reprimanding, though her voice is soft, unsure and self-conscious, her body squirming under his scrutiny. He realizes then how highly uncomfortable he must be making her.

"Sorry," he utters apologetically, ungluing his eyes from her face at last. His eyes fall to her attire instead, the odd assortment of what he knows as her seasonal clothes and it makes him wonder. The light sweater she is wearing is slightly damp and as his eyes fall to her feet, he notices them to be wet too.

"Your socks are soaked," he observes curiously, unable to hold that strange thought to himself. She shifts from foot to foot, then finally crosses the room, walks over to a chest of drawers near the window to pull out a new pair.

"I know," she huffs annoyed, and Castle notes she sounds more like the old Beckett that he has yet heard her. It has a surprisingly soothing effect on him. "I only have a pair of summer boots but since they are, obviously, meant for summer, they soak in a matter of minutes. I haven't had time to go buy myself proper winter shoes yet," she says with a slight frown, so matter-of-factly as if it were completely natural for him to hear these things. She must catch herself just then, because she turns to him then, gives him a sheepish look, her cheeks tingeing red.

"I haven't really packed for winter," she explains quietly, plopping down onto her bed and pulling off her drenched socks to change into the new pair, so naturally in front of him as if she were doing this every day. It steals his breath away.

"Why not?" he asks stupidly, the only thing to pop into his mind, his eyes still fixated on her dry-sock-clad feet.

Her face grows soft, more tender. "I never planned on being away for so long," she replies softly.

"I know," he quickly intercedes. He doesn't want her to feel bad over that, her father's explained already so much. "What I meant is why didn't you take more of your clothes with you? If they were going to destroy your apartment, you could have taken more, so you didn't need to restock so much later," he explains, feeling somewhat dumb.

"There is only so much you can pack into two suitcases in fifteen minutes, Castle," she says calmly but her words serve as a punch to the gut. He stares at her and she stares right back, lips pursed, understanding his train in thought, confirming it with her silence. He's the first to look away.

So this is how it's been for her. Fifteen minutes to wrap her whole life up in two suitcases. He has no idea what he would have taken given the same option. What would he pack? Money? Papers? The contents of his safe? No use. Clothes, sure, some. And toiletries, the first things to naturally jump to your mind when packing for a trip. But he was going to stay longer, be more lonely. And the place would be gone once he came back, all the possessions along with it. What else would he take? His thoughts go immediately to Alexis. Pictures, albums. Yes, that's what he would take, pictures of him and his daughter, maybe some of his mother. He has a chest hidden in his office, holding all things dear considering Alexis ever since he was a child. Drawings from kindergarten, macaroni necklaces she made at school, a friendship bracelet. Yeah, he would definitely take that box with him.

His writers mind is really good at this. Considering he's already wasted nine minutes on this, what else would he take?

Some of his books? His manuscripts? Maybe.

How about something from the precinct? The boys? Kate? What could he take of Kate? He doesn't even have a picture, other than his phone, and that would probably get confiscated anyway. He feels himself panic. How could she have decided? How could she have decided when she was allowed to take only so little, in even less time? A surge of regret, envy and pride rises in him for the fact that she was able to do it.

A hand touches his forearm, a soft hand, breaking him from his reverie. He jumps back, jerks his arms away as if burned, watches the shadow of hurt steal over her face before it's gone in a second, her expression perfectly smooth again.

"Hey, you okay?" she asks, but doesn't attempt to touch him again. He doesn't know whether to be glad or sorry.

"Yeah, fine, I just," he stutters, "I cannot imagine what that must have been like. How you could have done it, to decide what to take," he says, his eyes finding hers. He feels sorry for her and he wants her to see it. It's no pity, no, it's definitely not pity. But he's really sorry she had to go through that. He knows how long she searched for a new, suitable place, how happy she was when she finally found her studio, with how much care and consideration she refurnished and redecorated it.

"I'm sorry about your place," he says and mentally kicks himself again. He should really pay more attention to what he's saying.

"Yeah, so am I," she says dryly, regret dripping from her words. "But it couldn't be helped," she says shrugging non-commitally, a finality to her words. "Besides, they were only things," she adds quietly and he recognizes the undertones to what she's saying.

Only things. Not people. Not like you, like our friends. Like my father. They will be greatly missed, but not irreplaceable. Not like people.

The intensity of her look is too much and he needs to look away.

"Lanie promised me an excruciating shopping spree though," she says, some of that familiar twinkle back in her eye, "So I should have twice the amount of clothes I ever possessed in the matter of a few weeks," she says and he laughs. He actually laughs. It startles them both.

"So you are good? Lanie, the guys, I mean?" he asks after a beat, trying to return to a normal, less loaded conversation again. He feels her cringe a little, but again, she is quick to hide it.

She gives a small nod. "Lanie and I are getting there. Ryan is being, well Ryan. Sweet and forgiving. Both of them were really…gracious about all this, to tell the truth." She is earnest, Castle notes. She truly feels that having her friends forgiving her is more than she could ever ask for. "Espo however," she starts, one of her eyes involuntarily twitching, "didn't take it that well." He hears her voice lace with guilt when her eyes shy away from him. "You know, after what happened with Ike."

Right, Ike. Damn, he's forgotten about that. How in the name of God could he only forgotten about Ike? No wonder Esposito is so pissed. And no wonder she feels so bad.

He steals a glance at her, observing her, using the opportunity when she isn't reciprocating his intense gaze. She looks very small. Small and tired. Lost. He feels a surge of protectiveness he was not used to in regards to her, posses him.

"Tell me more about your time away," he blurts out, a gripping need to know more about how it was for her while in hiding clenching his heart. He needs to know more. So much more.

TBC

So? Whatcha think? I kinda like it myself, but of course I'd like to hear your thoughts on this too. ;)