A/N: My entry for the 2013 Castle Hiatus Ficathon. I was super pumped when the idea of a Ficathon was first suggested, and got even more excited when I saw which authors were talking about entering. This is my humble shot at it, because ideas like the Ficathon need to be encouraged and it's my way of supporting it.

My purpose in writing this particular story is to see if I can. There are a number of excellent angsty fics out there at the moment, and to be honest, I'm sorry to be throwing another one out there, especially considering how much I've been ranting on Twitter against breakup fics- so please forgive my hypocrisy, and read anyway :-)

I need to write this for me. I need to know if I can do it. I struggle to let characters hurt- I want to fix them right away, and I need to grow beyond that in my writing. I'm also working through a burnout-related depression right now, so I'm considering this to be part of my therapy in working through that. Your thoughts and feedback will be welcome as always.

This story will be pretty well exclusively told from Castle's perspective. My one request is that you go easy on Kate- Castle may not know what's going on with her, but I do, so please be nice to her in your reviews. It takes place several weeks after Squab and the Quail, and is AU- it assumes that the job offer and proposal in Human Factor and Watershed didn't happen. This will get angsty, but know that I can't live with an unhappy ending. Rest assured that all will be ok, eventually (the aim is 50,000 words, after all)

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Castle belongs to the genius that is Andrew Marlowe, and also to ABC. I play with them because I'm a wee bit addicted to these awesomely written, beautifully portrayed characters, and I need more of them :-)

He shut the door to the loft quietly.

Dropped his keys in the bowl by the door.

Shrugged off his coat and hung it in the closet.

Simple things. Automatic things. Things his body knew how to do without prompting.

He needed to do those things, because his brain was on complete shut down.

He moved through the loft without taking anything in. There was nothing to take in. Martha had been spending less and less time at home recently now that Alexis was no longer there and he was preoccupied with... and Alexis was snowed under with assignments, had told him just last weekend that for the next couple of weeks she probably wouldn't have time to breathe let alone come visit.

And it wasn't like anyone else was going to be here. Not after today.

There would be no unexpected sound of her key in the lock. No sound of stilettos across the floorboards. No laughing greeting or warm embrace or welcoming kiss. Not any more.

He sat heavily in his desk chair, because he couldn't bring himself to face his room. Not yet. He knew the bed was still unmade, the sheets left in a tangled heap. Her scent was still lingering in the pillows, in the bathroom, in his heart.

The day had started so well- he thought so, at least. Yes, there had been signs of tension lately. Yes, a lot of things hadn't been perfect. He hadn't been perfect. She always was. But he had woken with her cuddled into his side, nose burrowing into his shoulder, and he had been content. Confident. Whatever this strange phase was that they were in, it would pass. He had been sure of that this morning.

Yet here he was at 7:45 pm, with his confidence and hope shattered, spread about like sharp sharps, splintered throughout his home. His heart. There was no way to find all the pieces. No way to put them back together. They were scattered far and wide, shrapnel that flung pieces so far and wide and deep that there could be no recovery. He was bleeding, dying from the already festering wounds that, though unseen, would surely result in his demise.

Now that he looked back over the morning, over the past several weeks, he could so clearly see the signs. Why couldn't he see it at the time? Was he really so blind, so wrapped up in his own perfect world, that he had failed the very person who made his world so beautiful?

Take this morning, for example. He had reached over and tucked a stray strand of hair away as she woke. Now that he thought about it, that sweet smile she had answered the gesture with had been chased away almost immediately by the tiniest of frowns. At the time, he thought it was the case, the reality of daylight settling in. Now he wasn't so sure.

She had taken one look at the bedside clock and given a small yelp, flying out of bed and into the bathroom. The door had been firmly locked by the time he had struggled to sit up.

He had looked at the time. They usually snuggled for another half hour. It was early.

Pushing the covers aside, he ambled into the kitchen to coax the coffee machine to life a little early. She was sometimes like this in the middle of a case, focused and wanting to be at work for as long as was needed to find the bad guy. They were in the middle of a twisty one, too. He should have known she would want to be up and ready to go.

He hadn't realized in just what way, though.

In no time at all, she was flying past him, a hurried "No time for coffee this morning, Castle!" thrown over her shoulder. He stood there for a full minute after she was gone, still clad in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, hair sticking out at odd angles from sleep, her coffee held out towards the door as if she would come back for it any second now.

Only, she didn't.

He had tipped the liquid down the sink. His own, too. It didn't seem right for him to enjoy a caffeine kick when she wasn't. Making his way back to his room, he had gone about his usual routine of getting ready for the day, taking his time so that he would arrive sufficiently later than his girlfriend. Staggered arrival times was one of her rules, even now that Gates knew about them, and even though for a while there she had seemed more and more willing to break as many of the rules as she could, lately she seemed to be going back to them. He had followed her lead, of course. When someone like Kate Beckett tells you to jump, you don't stop and ask how high. If she's willing to be with you, share her bed and her life with you, you don't question her little hangups about workplace etiquette.

Maybe the fact that she had gone back to her hangups should have been another warning sign.

He had stopped by the coffee shop on the way in, instead. Made sure to get her favorite in the biggest size possible. Hadn't touched his own, because he secretly liked the idea of them having their morning coffee together.

Rounding the corner of the bullpen, he had stopped short. She was already immersed in her work, didn't even so much as glance up at him.

On her desk was a takeout coffee cup identical to the one in his hand.

Recovering, he had stepped forwards, pausing by the desk.

"Hey," he greeted her, admiring the shine of her hair, the sharp jut of her cheekbone.

"Hi, Castle," she replied. Her tone was distracted, a little annoyed. He placed her coffee in front of her with a flourish.

She barely looked at it, just kind of glanced up fleetingly, a slight frown creasing the space between her eyebrows. He wanted to kiss it away. He wanted her to smile, to take the coffee from his hand instead of from the desk, to brush her fingers over his and let them linger. To take a sip and let the relief of the caffeine fill her, and for her to give him that little knowing smile as she hummed in contentment. He wanted them to be home at the loft still, so he could be free to touch that smile, to taste that first sip against her tongue.

He did not want to be ignored. He did not want her getting her own coffee.

He glanced around, taking in the hustle and bustle of the bull pen, before gingerly seating himself on the edge of his chair. Taking a deep breath, he contorted his face until it resembled a smile.

"I thought you said you didn't have time for coffee this morning," he almost managed to not sound hurt. Almost.

"Just trying to change things up, Castle," she replied without looking up.

Silence stretched between them for a while, an awkward, ugly thing, unwelcome as it was unusual. He couldn't remember the last time things were awkward between them. Maybe that should have been another sign. She didn't even seem to notice, though, her pen flying through the reports.

She put her pen down, glared at him. "Castle, I'm trying to work here. Stop staring at me."

His mouth dropped open. He couldn't remember the last time she had snipped at him in public like that. As a joke, yes, but it had been years since she really meant it. "B-But I always stare at you while you work. That's what I do here. I thought you liked it."

She had sighed then, her annoyance dropping away and leaving only a sadness he didn't understand. "That's the problem, isn't it? We're just doing what we've always done. We have been for so long now."

With the magic of hindsight, he should have noticed this one glaring clue before it was too late. He didn't, though, even though now he thought of it, it wasn't the first time she'd tried to have that conversation with him.

What was he meant to say, though? That he was scared of that conversation? That he was scared he would scare her off with talk of marriage and babies and forever? That he was petrified she would wake up one morning and realize that he wasn't the man he pretended to be? That she was way to good for him. He was meant to tell her all of that?

Rick Castle wasn't scared of traditional things. Well... ok, yes, he was, but... point is, the things he truly feared ran much deeper than that. And one of his biggest fears was that if he ever truly put his everything into something, he might fail. Dementedly, he was sometimes even more afraid of success. Success meant people had expectations, and expectations meant letting people down, and if he let people down, they wouldn't like him any more, and that hurt. And things that hurt... hurt. They caused pain. And pain is horrible, and should be avoided at all costs.

So he avoided the conversations. Was it right, or smart, or brave? No. And he knew it, felt the failure twist in his gut, the knowledge of it weighing him down, making him more defensive, more inclined to shy away.

The day had continued much the same. He had helped with the case where he could, sat and tried to be quiet when he couldn't. It wasn't until shortly after lunch and the four of them were going through the victim's financials in the conference room that Castle had an idea.

"What if the step-daughter knew about the money?" he asked suddenly.

"Our vic adored her step-daughter. She would have given her anything she asked for in the blink of an eye," Beckett argued back. "The husband, on the other hand, or the sister- they both knew she had more stashed away than she was letting on."

They had argued back and forth, throwing theories around. Ryan and Esposito paused in their work to watch with growing interest, enjoying the entertainment.

"I still think I'm right," Castle replied smugly at one point, and it was then that the entire atmosphere of the room changed in a heartbeat.

Kate had narrowed her eyes at him. Glared. When she spoke, her voice was so icy he felt like he'd been dropped in liquid nitrogen.

"Of course you do."

He'd exchanged a puzzled look with the boys. "Kate...?" he began hesitantly, taking a step towards her, but she had held up her hands to stop him, her eyes dropping away.

"Castle, this isn't working. Maybe you should go."

His whole body had jerked. He had actually felt the blood run from his face, leaving a pale, lifeless version of himself. Kate Beckett's words had that kind of power over him.

"Are you talking about the case, or about-" he indicated vaguely between the pair of them, thankful that it was just them and the boys there.

She had been silent for a long moment, sucking in the hollow of her cheek like she did when she was making up her mind about something and she wasn't happy with either option.

Finally, finally, she met his eyes once more. She was wearing her detective mask now- brave, determined, self-assured, but he could see the darkness of grief swirling in the depths of her eyes.

Please, Kate, no. No, love!

"I'll call you, all right?" she had lifted her chin slightly at the end, a challenging gesture to let him know that her word choice had been deliberate.

It threw his mind into chaos, even as his body stayed where he was, mouth hanging open at her, unable to comprehend that she was really doing this here, now, in front of the boys. It was all he could do not to sob where he stood, to beg and plead and cry out for her to change her mind. Her words conjured up images of two summers ago. Of bullets and confessions and leaving her in the saving arms of Dr. Motorcycle Boy. Of a whole summer of staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring. Of hoping against hope that she would call him, that she was still alive, still safe.

Her words made him think of dead leads and hours of endless frustration. Of chasing a ghost with the boys. Of being kicked out of the precinct by Gates practically the moment she walked in the door. Of the final edits of Heat Rises, of rewriting that ending. Of pitying stares from his mother and daughter. Of emptiness. Of an endless summer of heartache and unanswered questions.

They had talked about this since then. She knew now what her words had done to him, just as he understood now the brokenness from whence they came. And that made her word choice hurt even more. Because he knew that it was deliberate. He knew that she knew. And yet she still did it. She used words most calculated to hurt him on purpose.

No matter how many arguments they'd had, no matter how much he bickered or she glared, or how heated things got, things had never gotten deliberately mean.

It had taken him several moments to collect himself. To collect the salvageable pieces of himself.

The few remaining pieces of his heart, he left with her.

Silently, with the weighty stares of three detectives on him, he shuffled out of the room, picked up the coat hung carelessly over the back of the chair, and crossed the bustling bull pen, and hit the button for the elevator.

The last glimpse he got of her, right before the doors closed, she was running her hand through her hair, a file in hand, as Detective Beckett got back to work.

The loft was dark; silent save the hum of the refrigerator. He still sat at his desk chair, staring into nothing, trying to wrap his brain around what had happened. On some level, he knew he should eat or drink or go to bed, but he just... couldn't. His whole body was numb, and mundane things like food and sleep just didn't appeal. Nothing did. Not when there was a chasm inside of him, a gaping hole where his insides no longer existed. At one point, he thought briefly of whiskey, of numbing the pain the old fashioned way, but he couldn't. Drinking wouldn't help. In fact, all it would do was remind him of her father, and that would make him think of her, and that wouldn't be forgetting anything.

So he sat there, lost in the void of his mind, reliving the pain of the day. Going over the past weeks and months, finding the jagged edges he'd missed, the places where they had begun to fray and come apart- his own personal nightmare becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.

He hadn't come straight back to his apartment when he'd been kicked out of the precinct. He couldn't. The idea of being trapped inside a confined space with only his thoughts to torture him... he couldn't do it.

He had wandered the streets instead, allowing his body to flow with the foot traffic of Manhattan while his mind drifted over his morning. He wasn't sure how long he walked or how far he went, but when he finally came too, he was standing across the road from her apartment building, staring up at her window- even though he knew she was still at the precinct. The sun had shifted, and though he didn't bother to look at his watch, he knew a considerable amount of time had passed- a couple of hours, maybe.

He crossed the road, used his key to enter her building, took the clunky, wheezing elevator up to her floor. At her door, he paused. He wasn't sure he should go in. Was that too invasive? But if he left, it would mean giving up on them, and that was unbearable.

Sighing deeply, he turned so his back was against the door, and slid down until he was seated.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

At one point, his legs began to fall asleep, so he stood and paced the hallway for a while, until the grumpy guy from 3G came past and scowled at him. He went back to sitting then.

It was well after 6 by the time the elevator doors opened and she stepped out, faltering when she saw him sprawled in front of her door.

He had scrambled up when he caught sight of her, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of her beauty, his heart stuttering at her weariness.

"Castle, what are you doing?" she was tired, disappointed by his presence. He could hear it in his voice.

"I wanted to see you," he knew he sounded pathetic, needy, and more than a little petulant.

She pressed her mouth together into a thin line, clearly not impressed. "What are you doing outside my door?"

His eyes dropped under her raised eyebrows, and he shuffled like a schoolboy. "I wasn't sure I was welcome inside," he confessed.

She sighed deeply. "I told you I'd call," she didn't deny his words.

He took half a step closer. "We both know you weren't going to. I'm not running from this, Kate. Not until you kick me out in as many words."

She closed her eyes as if in pain. He never, ever wanted to cause her pain. "We're not having this conversation in the hallway, Castle."

"Does that mean I can come in?" he asked, unable to keep the hope out of his voice.

She didn't answer, simply pushed past him and inserting her key in the lock. She didn't shut the door behind her. That was invitation enough for him.

Coming in behind her, he shut the door gently and stood awkwardly in the entryway, watching her kick off her heels and get a glass of water.

"It was the step-daughter, by the way," she said casually, out of the blue. He blinked, his mind scrambling to connect her words to anything that might make sense, before he remembered the beginning of their argument at the precinct.

The case.

"The step-daughter? But I thought they had a great relationship...?" he began, stopping short when he saw her glare.

"Castle, don't gloat. Please. Not tonight," she ran a hand through her hair.

He sighed. "I wasn't gloating. I was just... Look, I'm pleased you closed the case. But Kate, that's not why I'm here."

She placed her glass on the counter with more force than necessary. "Then why are you here, Castle?"

He retreated a couple of steps. "I thought we should talk. You know, about what happened this afternoon. All of today, really. The last couple of weeks. What's been going on with you?"

Her eyes narrowed, flashed with something he hadn't seen before- or maybe he just hadn't been paying attention. Again.

"You want to talk now? Really, Castle?"

"W-What do you mean?" he had asked, bewildered.

She sighed, braced her hands against the counter top, hanging her head as if gathering strength. "I've been trying to talk to you about this for a month, Castle. I've brought it up again and again, and you haven't even noticed," she lifted her head, looked at him directly. "I wanted to know if this was it? If this is all this is going to be- if you were ready to move forward together? Do you want more than what we have, Castle? Because to me, you've been doing the opposite. You don't talk to me about anything important, and you change the subject when I try. You don't light up when you look at me the way you used to. I just- I just want to know where this is going," she pleaded with him.

He didn't know what to say. Images of the future ran before his eyes, taunting him- Kate in a white dress, floating up the aisle on her father's arm; a swollen belly and a radiant smile; a tiny person cradled on his shoulder as she slipped her arms around them both from behind; little footsteps running into their room and leaping on them on his birthday; grandchildren and gray hair and forever.

Then came their foes, rising up and destroying the happy pictures. Kate with one foot out the door of every relationship she had ever been in; Kate lying to him about remembering; Kate being skittish and easily overwhelmed by any talk of permanence; Kate's look of disgust on that day in the future when she finds out he isn't everything he pretends to be; Kate's joy when she meets someone truly worthy of her, and she leaves without a backwards glance.

The images had only been interrupted by her sigh. "You don't have an answer, do you? You've crossed me off your bucket list, and now you're onto the next thing."

That snapped him out of it, like a slap in the face. "How can you say that?" he demanded.

"Because you haven't said anything, Castle! You haven't said a thing! What else am I meant to believe?" she shot back.

"But-but I love you!" he began, but she shook her head, effectively silencing him. When she spoke it was with a gentleness that hurt more than if she had screamed at him.

"You say that, but you don't act like it any more. Ever since Alexis you've been pulling away from me. I've felt you do it. I've tried fighting for this, Castle, but I can't fight alone anymore."

A fist of ice clutched his heart. "What are you saying, exactly?" he asked quietly. She looked away for a long moment, gathering herself.

"I love you, Castle, more than I've ever thought it would be possible to love someone. You know that- or at least I hope you do. But if this relationship isn't going anywhere, then maybe we should end it now before it causes any more pain," she said quietly.

He felt winded. All the air in his lungs had wooshed out at her words, and he couldn't- he couldn't get any oxygen back in. "K-Kate...?" he stuttered.

She turned away.

"I'm sorry, Castle. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she whispered, using the same heartbreaking words to end their relationship as she had used a year ago to begin it.

He had closed his eyes, clamped his mouth shut to silence the scream of anguish in his soul that threatened to erupt and drown them both. Tears burned, leaking out under his eyelids and falling inelegantly from his chin.

She didn't look at him, so she never knew. Or maybe she did. Kate Beckett was nothing if not extraordinary.

"Go home, Castle," she said in a strangled whisper.

He opened his eyes then, and his mouth, too. Took a step towards her, an honest-to-God whimper dying in the back of his throat when she shook her head, moved away from him.

Her bedroom door shut behind her.

He stayed where he was for a long time, hoping that she would come out, that they could have that conversation over again, only this time with words on his part. It was too late for that now, though. His dreams came true, he had once bragged to her. Between Alexis being kidnapped a few months back, and now today, his nightmares did, too, apparently.

When he realized he was still in her kitchen- in his ex-girlfriend's kitchen- he forced himself to move. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his keyring, tried not to think about anything as he removed her door key and set it on the bench. Then it was a simple case of a scant half dozen steps back to her door, a final long glance around the apartment he had grown to love as a second home, before shutting the door behind him for the last time.

It wasn't quite 2 am yet when he finally stood from his desk chair, so tired suddenly that it didn't matter that he was going to bed alone. He removed his shirt and pants, changing into sweats and a t-shirt, and went to the bathroom.

He stared at his reflection uncomprehendingly as he brushed his teeth. He couldn't really bring himself to care about dental hygiene right now, but the physical action provided him with something to do. He looked old. Haggard. The harsh yellow light seemed to emphasize the bags under his eyes, the flesh around his cheeks.

His eyes looked dead. The dancing blue tonight had turned to granite. Like a tombstone, he thought humorlessly.

What life was there without Kate Beckett?

Turning back to the bedroom, he paused in the open doorway, light from the bathroom behind him spilling out and illuminating the room.

A montage played on the screen of his mind, beginning with that night a year ago when she had led him in here from the front door, her fingers like ice, trembling with cold and desire. If he closed his eyes, he could relive every touch, every taste. The way she surged up into him, eyes naked and wanting, body fluid and malleable around his. He could hear her breathless laugh as he discovered just where and how to touch her, to make her rise up and fall apart.

His eyes burned and his head pounded. He needed to go to bed. Maybe he could convince himself that it was just for tonight? That it was just like any of the other occasional nights they spent apart these days, when a case ran too late and clashed with a meeting or a family dinner with Alexis.

Crossing to the bed, he flipped on the lamp and surveyed the tangle of sheets. Any other night, he would have been tempted to change them as they were already in disarray- but not tonight. It might be gross and smelly and a hundred other bad things right now, but those sheets still had her scent on them, and he wasn't changing them until the lingering waft of cherries permeated them no more. Setting to work, he remade the bed carefully, brushing out every wrinkle, stalling for as long as he could. It wasn't until he was tucking in the sheets on her side that he noticed the contents of the bedside table.

She had placed a photo of the pair of them from their ill-fated ski trip to Aspen there- the one that got taken before his accident. He was behind her, his hands possessively draped around her waist, tugging her into him. She was laughing up at him as he beamed for the camera. She had been teasing him about something- he couldn't even remember what now- but he remembered the music of her laughter, the way it danced around him, lifting his heart and releasing it to fly free.

Beside the photo was a small pile of bobby pins, a novel from his abundant shelves, a bottle of lotion. He sat heavily, undoing all of his careful work in creating a wrinkle free sleeping environment, and reached for the lotion, popping the lid and breathing it in. He had always hated the bottle- the snap of the plastic opening and shutting had always sounded like gunshots reverberating around the room. She had always rolled her eyes at him when he complained, threatening him with real gunshots if he didn't stop. A little grin would always plays around the corner of her lips when she said it, though- a little grin he had always treated as an invitation to swoop in and taste.

The lotion smelled of late nights chatting over details of cases. Of reading by lamplight, separately but together. Of lingering good night kisses that sometimes ended in snuggling down to sleep curled in to one another, and sometimes ended in keeping each other awake long into the night. He squeezed out a tiny amount- just enough to smell- and rubbed it into his hands. He then reached for the photo, cradling the frame in his hands as he gazed upon her smile, taking in every detail of her, adding more from his store of memories. He didn't want to forget a thing about her. He couldn't.

He stood slowly, shuffled around the bed to his side. He didn't want to sleep on hers, just in case. A whispered voice of optimism in his mind reminded him she still had a key. It wouldn't be the first time she had crawled into his bed in the middle of the night, so often happier to spend what little time she had to sleep with him rather than separated from him. He knew it was ridiculous to hope, but he couldn't help it. He needed it to get through the night.

It took him a long time to get comfortable. It wasn't until he reached for her pillow and crushed it to his chest, right under his nose so her scent could surround him that he finally gave up wriggling. Gave up fighting. Gave up pretending that he wasn't bottling the ache inside his chest, now that his heart was in splinters.

It was only then that he finally faced the reality that this was his first night of many alone in this bed again, because Kate Beckett was no longer his. The stinging behind his eyes that he had managed to fight off earlier came back with a vengeance as his emotions caught up with him. His shoulders shook as a heaving sob broke free, followed by another and another and another. The storm of tears ran awkwardly off his nose, down his cheek, soaking the pillowing beneath him, but he didn't care. He couldn't. Not when his heart and his hopes were shattered, ground to dust and tossed in the wind.

Kate Beckett was no longer his. He had lost her.

The thought revolved around his mind, again and again, like a song on repeat.

And so it was that Richard Castle cried himself to sleep.

Thoughts?