DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Beacon Pictures, Experimental Pictures, and ABC Studios. The story contents are the creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2015 by Djinn. This story is Rated PG-13.
Every Time I Close My
Eyes
by
Djinn
Beckett
lies quietly, cuddled next to Castle as he sleeps in a way that make his
earlier statement a lie, that he sees Tyson every time he closes his eyes.
But
then why would he? He beat Tyson and the
man died a soft, quiet death—she can imagine the look of surprise on Tyson's
face when Espo's bullet hit, the sudden realization
that he'd finally—totally—lost. And at
Castle's hands.
She
smiles, even though she's annoyed that Castle is sleeping like a baby and she's
playing back Nieman's death in her head. Over and over.
It's
not her face that haunts her—it's what Beckett did to her face. She didn't have to kill her, much less
butcher her. The anger—the pure,
adrenaline-fueled "It's not going to end like this, you psychotic
bitch" rage—that filled her was too much to deny.
Beckett
became like her. For that moment. A killer.
And
eventually, she knows she'll let it go.
She'll accept it as just one more part of who she is and what she's had
to do to survive. And then she'll sleep
again.
Just
like Castle is, only hopefully minus the snoring.
She'll
accept who she is and what she's done.
And
that's what really haunts her. Not
Nieman, or her slashed face, or Beckett's part in it, but that she can accept
it and Castle goddamned buried his memories.
He can't tell her a damn thing about where he was when he disappeared
because it's too horrible to remember.
How
is that fair? How is that right? She took Nieman down as much to preserve her
life with Castle as to save her own skin.
Whatever he did to get back to her and Alexis—it should be
bearable.
Why does he get to forget?
She
takes a deep breath and lets it out.
This anger is an old anger and it's useless. Castle made his decision, and he's content to
remain in ignorance. Or he's too afraid
of what he's capable of—of having her know that—that he's willing to remain in
ignorance even when it's the most out of character thing she's ever known him
to do.
He
solves the story. He finds the plot from
the pieces. It's his strength and it's
why she loves him.
And
if she thinks too hard about how he's not finding the story in this one, as she
does sometimes when she's alone, she loves him just a little bit less for it.
And
then she reminds herself that this is Castle, her Castle, and eventually, he will have to know. Maybe even more now that he almost lost her,
that he got a taste of what she went through.
She
lets out a ragged breath, glad that Alexis and Martha will be home soon. Their energy deflects her from this path,
from thinking about when she was alone and the man that should have been her
husband was nowhere to be found. Their love for him—their acceptance that he
doesn't know and isn't going to know—makes the part of her that is angry settle
a little.
"Are
you okay?" Castle's voice is soft
even though it's just them in the apartment.
"Yeah."
Normally
he'd try to distract her with kisses and touches and all the things she loves
about being in bed with him. Or he'd
probe, as if she's a character in his book that he doesn't understand yet.
Instead
he rolls over and turns on the light, then looks at her, studying her, and she
tries to hide that she's angry but he says, "Don't. Don't pretend," so she lets him have it,
the pain she feels, as much of it as will show from her eyes and the way her
mouth is set in a tight line.
"I'm
sorry."
"I
know."
He
swallows, visibly, and she can tell he's afraid, and maybe for once he's more
afraid of losing her than of what he might find out he did. But she's not going to push him: he needs to
get there himself.
It's
his past and he needs to want to know where he was and what he did. He has to want that for him, not just for her
or for them.
She
lets the anger go, and it's easy now, because even though they aren't really
talking, they are saying more than they have before. And she leans in and kisses him gently and
says, "I love you."
Then
she nods toward the light, and he turns it off, and she says, "We have a
big day tomorrow. Nobody has made
cappuccino right since you left."
And
he laughs and hugs her and murmurs, "I love you. I will always love you."
"I
know."
And
he falls back to sleep, holding her tightly against him.
She
closes her eyes and sees Neiman lying on the floor, feels the scalpel in her
hand, the drip of blood from the blade to her skin.
She
lets it sink in, become her, welcomes it, even.
She knows why she did it. She
knows she'd do it again—given the state she was in. What more is there?
Castle
mumbles in his sleep.
"Get
there soon," she whispers as she stares at the ceiling and waits for
morning.
FIN