11A/N
Ok, like I said this is my first venture into the world of writing fic, I've been a fan of...fanfic (redundant much?) since the internet had to make all sorts of incredibly annoying noises to connect.
Big shout out and huge thanks to the AMAZINGLY AUSS-OME (see what I did there?) duckys-dream for encouraging me to throw this out into the public forum. I will never find enough .gifs of The Glorious One to thank you properly!
I'd like to know what you think of it, but I'm not necessarily going to write another one anytime soon. Just as I said in the description, I'm not expecting all of them to be sweet. It happens, we're all (mostly) mature here, I can roll with it! :)
Another short Authors Note follows the story!
Now, go, read!
Disclaimer: My 3 cats own ME, so how could I possibly own Castle? All of Castle and its ideas, storylines, characters, collection of Beckett's amazing coats & jackets (not to mention her amazing hair) belong to ABC, Andrew Marlowe and the lot. Just like everyone else says, if I owned Castle, it'd probably have to be on *later* at night and probably on cable. *wink*wink*
It was the proverbial Butterfly Effect.
One tiny event setting off much bigger, much more devastating occurrences.
It was in utter disbelief he sat, thinking that something so small, so infinitesimal could have such a profound influence on his heart – on her heart if he were being brutally honest with himself.
One bullet, from one rifle, aimed at one detective, with only one intention.
It thoroughly served its purpose – it took her, his dear detective, from him in the most offensively shocking way.
The weight of it all was so overwhelming, and to have the very bullet – or, in actuality, the remnants of said bullet - that ripped through her delicate form in his possession was nearly masochistic. Only a man willing to put himself through further pain would have asked to see this memento…this rather gruesome reminder that was the only thin connection he still had to the woman he loved.
But there it was, lightly sitting in the palm of his hand, nearly weightless. The fact of the matter remained that this tiny – this damn little thing splintered his entire world.
He looked past the mangled disk of metal, no bigger than a small coin, and just stared at his hands – these hands were the very tools of his trade, without them he would be nothing.
He sat and laughed ruefully, humorlessly…darkly lamenting the fact that not even these so-called talented hands, worth millions some would claim, that held her so close, trying to be of comfort to her in any way she needed them to be – especially when she needed them most - could keep her with him; they made no difference whatsoever.
She was gone.
He would never hold her again.
He'd never see the little smirks she would occasionally flash him in the precinct when she thought no one else was looking.
He would never again be allowed the sweet luxury of filling his lungs with the scent of her cherry shampoo.
He leans his head back against the wall, alone with his thoughts for the moment. He desperately squeezes his eyes shut as if that will make all of this…chaos…go away. As if any of the disorder of the past 24 hours will suddenly reverse upon itself, and that there would be some sort of miraculous "do-over" to the day.
There's no way to go back, he's so brutally aware of the fact that this raw sense of loss is something he will have to…proceed with. He can't use the words "move-on" just yet, not even in his own mind, because it's all too fresh and too painful.
Balling his fist around the offensive piece of copper…or lead…or whatever the hell this damned bullet is made out of, he ruminates angrily - he squeezes it tighter and tighter until the shrapnel is painfully digging into his practiced hand.
Opening his fist again and allowing his hand to relax, he is not surprised that his vision has become blurred and that tears are openly falling onto the remnants of the bullet….her bullet.
This same fragment of metal that tore her apart is now doing the same to him.
He's pulled from his morose thoughts by the vibrating phone in his pocket, mindlessly glancing at the message he's received and quickly reading and dismissing it all at the same time. It's then he notices the background picture on his phone…a funny shot of the two of them – one where she was making an uncharacteristically goofy face, tucked right next to his equally outlandish smile.
Standing up and having another humorless laugh at his own expense while sadly shaking his head, he locks the screen again and slips the phone back in his pocket.
He takes one last fleeting look at the bullet that was pulled out of Kate before turning it over in his hand and placing it in an evidence bag that some...uniformed police officer, someone he didn't know…had given him when he had specifically asked to see the bullet.
Walking to the door, he petulantly throws it open, the harsh florescent lighting of the hospital a stark contrast to the dark room he was so woefully self-imprisoned.
He slowly strides to the nurses station, leaving the metaphorically profound evidence bag with the doctor who attended to Kate, the one who gave him permission to see the bullet in the first place. He offers his thanks and turns to leave – to go home and most likely drown his sorrows with the strongest liquor he owns.
As he turns for the exit, he sees a man walking – bounding in, really…a spring to his every step as he carefully arranges and rearranges the flowers he's carrying in his hands. This guy couldn't look happier and is clearly on a mission to brighten somebody's day.
The cheerful man falters as he sees the miserable face opposite his own, his smile quickly fading and the elated gait is contained and slowed when their eyes meet. The other man clears his throat as if he's about to say something, but then decides it best to direct his eyes down and keep moving right along.
The morose man wants to feel bad for casting a shadow over this otherwise carefree character that he just passed, but then again…no, he could honestly care less. Good, he thinks, this person should feel just as badly as HE feels on this horrible day, everyone will have to suffer through his wrath for the foreseeable future, no exceptions.
Especially the particular individual with whom he just crossed paths.
After all, just because Richard Castle wants to do cartwheels while carrying flowers to the recovery room of one Miss Katherine Beckett doesn't mean that her very-recent-ex, Dr. Josh Davidson has to put on a happy face like everything is freakin' peachy…as if she hadn't just broke up with him mere hours before.
Oh, sure, she let him down gently, said it wasn't *him*, that she could see things more clearly now, and how she didn't want to hurt him and things weren't going to work out after all, and how she was in love with someone else but she hadn't fully realized it until now.
He swallowed down the growl that threatened to erupt from him. Screw this, he thought - she wants to pick a writer over a doctor? Fine by him, he thought bitterly...angrily wiping at the stupid tear that was sneaking down his face with the sleeve of his scrub.
She'd eventually see the error in her ways and come crawling back to him. "Any more lies you want to tell yourself today, Josh?" he thought to himself
Who makes all these drastic decisions and changes of heart after such a traumatic event? This had all come to fruition in less than 24 hours and without a second thought on her part.
It was a decision that left him standing alone in the cold feeling as though his world was falling apart around him.
And all it took was one tiny bullet.
LOL surprise! Oh, you thought I was talking about Richard Castle? Hmm, my bad *evil grin*
Are you kidding?! I couldn't possibly put into writing either A.)Kate dying...NOR...B.)Castle mourning. I would have to buy a new laptop from the water damage my tears would cause!
But I could always have Josh acting like a sulking baby after Kate rightfully dumps him, being all dramatic even though we all know that relationship was a load of crap - we all wish we could have SEEN her dumping him on the show, but we have to depend on our imaginations, and like I said, this is my little foray into that "scene".
Anyway, this came up in one of many random conversations with duckys-dream, so all thanks should be sent Down Under for the inspiration.
Review if you like, but I won't make or beg you solely because I wouldn't be holding up my end of the bargain - I'm not guaranteeing to make any effort to write again any time soon.
A big ol' Texas Thank Y'all for reading!