Summary: A brief introspective piece about the ways Richard Castle's words save a broken Kate Beckett.
Words That Save
Long before she met him, his words saved her. During the darkest time of her life, she turned to his novels as an escape from the hurtful world in which she felt so lonely, as a source of companionship in a time when the people hovering around suffocated her. He showed her light in the poorly-lit world, made her feel less like a suffering anomaly and more like a member of an unfortunate group.
He showed her that cases can be solved, that justice can find murderers, and that life, even with pain, can and does go on. He provided her with hope, even if she never realized it at the time, and resolution. Most importantly, though, he gave her a thread to hold onto.
Whenever she needed, she could always return to the warm blanket of his words and get lost for a few hours in a whole different world, a world in which she was not scarred, a world where she was whole. The impact of his words lasted years, like the best advice from an old, wise friend. She always knew that if things did not work out in the real world, if a case went unsolved before she picked up another, that she could crawl under the pages of his book and get exactly what she needs.
But now she does not need the bubble bath, wine, and novel to paste her back together when she begins to crumble, or after she has fully shattered. Somehow, with some indefinable luck of divinity, she has the man who wrote the words, the man who saved her time after time without once grasping her wrist as she fell following her mother's death.
He spins her stories and every time, no matter how serious the setting, she finds herself getting lost in his world. It is comforting, even when about aliens or murderers discovering a hidden ring of human traffickers or undercover spies. Every odd theory reminds her of how she feels when consumed by his novels—safe and at home.
Even more importantly, he always knows what to say. He knows when to use humor, when to let her win, when to push her buttons, and when to be gentle. Part of her knows spinning words is his job, that making her believe his tale and sentiments is what he makes a living off of, but there is always an added sincerity with the look in his eyes, the subtle lines of concern etched on his face.
Sometimes his words make her laugh when the world once more becomes too much. Other times, when his words clinch her heart, she is reminded of how it feels to be loved, something she often forgets the sensation of. Every time, however, he manages to pull her from her stupor and make things just a little more right, return the balance between good and evil. It is those quiet, meaningful times between them that he hands her yet another thread to grasp onto.
At the cemetery, as she was lying in the green, green grass, blood slowly draining from her chest, it was his words that kept her going. Somehow his words cut through the water that was slowly taking over her body and lungs. His words felt safe, like a heavy arm pulling her out from underneath the warm liquid, bringing her back. His words were what made her fight, even when she had no control over her body.
She is naturally a fighter, but his words saved her, gave her something worth fighting for in a world full of death. His words once more brought her back to life and, most importantly, back to him.