Castle Emergent

_"...It's the most important idea, or theme, that I as a writer can communicate to my audience.  
__I think everybody needs hope, and I never get tired of being reminded of that."_

Frank Spotnitz - Feb. 2015

* * *

The sheets feel constrictive against him; he's been tossing and turning since he collapsed on the mattress hours ago. It's to no avail. It would be naïve to think that he's catching any sleep until she's back. He's hot and cold at the same time; his skin feels tight as if it cannot contain the anguish within.

The sheets, they smell like her. The spicy notes of her favorite perfume and the light hint of cherries; her moisturizer, he's learned since living with her. The aroma is like a punch to his stomach that brings him back to the grim reality he's been living since Nieman and Tyson left the precinct.

Kate is gone.

Castle sits up on their bed. His socked feet reach the floor and he flexes his toes, trying to let the calming sensation ground him. He didn't even bother to change; yesterday's pain clings to him on his stubble and stale clothes. His heart pounds away with an intensity that he doesn't want to peg to a sense of despair. But it is. He knows it's too soon to lose hope, but at the same time… it's _too late_. It's too much.

He shouldn't have let her go by herself. Not when these psychopaths are at play, not when he'd had a nagging feeling that something was awry. Not without him, never without him.

Some husband he is. There are a million scenarios playing in his head. Visions of what they could be doing to her; even though she's so tenacious, even when she's so strong and daring, and won't ever back down from a fight… his Kate is still human.

His Kate is soft and warm and pliable between his hands. She smells like home and spice and an essence that he's come to describe as her soul. His Kate smiles with unbridled youth and shivers at his words, excited, overcome, and in love.

His Kate feels with an incredible intensity. He can't let Kate be broken. Not when they've just finally managed to put some of their scattered pieces back together.

His eyelids feel like sand paper over his dry and tired eyes. He thinks he's finally run out of tears, but they sting and itch, and he continues to torture them by pushing the heels of his hands onto them. He welcomes the pain; it makes him feel less numb, it gives him something to react to, when half of him feels dead and the other half can't figure out how to contain himself. He's developed a nervous twitch. His knee jiggles and bounces up and down.

Castle spies the numbers on their alarm clock. It's barely six thirty in the morning. Any other day, she'd be stretching over their mattress in a cat-like fashion, willing her limbs to wake up. After a while, a hand would sprawl over his chest, sweetly coaxing him out his slumber, out of the dreams that he'd been having about her.

Any other day, she'd be here.

He cracks his neck as he takes in the streaks of light that have begun to filter through their blinds. Their quality is different today; it's grey and dull. Even daylight seems to shy away from his foul mood.

He takes a deep breath and pushes himself to his feet. He needs to get moving, to get to the precinct and turn over as many rocks as he can find until one leads him to her. He needs a shower and a bitter coffee. It won't comfort him today, but it might push him on.

His reflection in the bathroom mirror tells him exactly what he already knows. That dark side of him, the one he rarely acknowledges, rests thick and menacing in the eyes staring back at him, in the sullen and disenchanted quality of his expression. He searches deep, trying to find the hopeful man she admires, and all he sees is fear. He can't stand it, and diverts his eyes to the corner of the mirror where he knows very well he'll find the humorous reflection of his lighter self.

The Boba Fett statue stares back at him in the deafening silence, inanimate, still; a warrior waiting for a battle that won't come. And then he sees it. There's a difference to him this morning; a stark, contrasting stick peeks out from his fist, a foreboding message waiting to be delivered.

Castle turns around, his trembling hand reaching out to the fist of his old war mate. Kate had been coy; so nonchalant and carefree about her comments, and he'd totally missed it. She had played him like she often does, setting it up to make him join her on the same page of their book. And now, what he's sure would have been the most exciting moment of their lives, the moment where her knowing smile would have stolen his breath away, that moment is tainted.

The Clear Blue stick mocks him, slays him in half. Kate is pregnant.

His Kate is pregnant.

His wife and unborn child are missing and in the hands of monsters. The notion destroys every single structure inside of him that had still held him up. A metallic and hollow sound fills his ears, deafening as the nausea takes over, and his limbs feel weak with the instant pain that suffuses his muscles. Lightening courses through him; bile rises up his throat, poisoning him, smoldering his insides in a way he'd forgotten he could feel. He rushes to the toilet, kneeling and doubling over in pain, dry heaving and coughing when his body can't find anything else to expel.

Sweat drips from his brow and trickles down, mixing with the tears that stain his face, catching in the rough surface of his skin. He's too hot, he's freezing cold, and his skin feels clammy and stale, like a dirty dishrag. He leans back against the side of the tub, his sobs involuntarily escaping his lips, but still contained; he refuses to let the final throws of pain deliver their cry.

He can't allow himself to fall further in, he can't hear himself cry, he's not this person that they've forced him to become. He's fended off the dark pits of self-judgment, has become at peace with breaking down to the knowledge that he may never solve the mystery that took him away, cheating them out of their happiness and creating another scar that they've struggled to overcome and ignore. But it's still very present for him, and he knows for her as well, showing its face when insecurities surface, like they are right now.

And right now she's not here to nurture him with her strength, to stop the remorse from showing its ugly face, to mute the panic… to stop him from crumbling into the helpless panic-filled heap his mind resorts to when left with so many unanswered questions. His heart rate skyrockets, his hands are balled into tight fists around the test, knuckles white. He thinks that maybe he should just –

"Richard?"

He hears his mother's soft footfall against the wood floors. He doesn't bother to open his eyes.

"Oh, darling, Richard…"

She cards cool fingers through his hair and clucks comforting noises, patting him on the shoulder.

"Come on, darling. Up."

Her voice rings fake and overly cheery; she's trying, she's really trying, but there's an unmistakable crack and it sparks something in him; a will to be strong, to appear, on the outside at least, like he's not about to crumble in dust. He still has his mother and Alexis to think about. The protective instinct has always been strong in him and maybe that will be his saving grace, the one thing that keeps him from going insane.

He cracks open his eyes and stands, stumbling to the faucet with the test still clutched in his hand. Maybe if he splashes some water on his face, shaves, he'll feel a little better. Maybe the jolt to his system will spark some kind of clue, or idea of what to do next, where to look. But he can't let it go. It's all he's got. He stands mute, silent and still at the counter, not knowing what to do next, head hung low and heart in his throat.

"Richard, what is it?" his mother asks gently.

His hand shakes as he extends it toward his mother. Her face drops, and she gasps, realization taking a hold of her features.

"Mom…" His voice cracks on a heaving sob. "What do I do now?"

* * *

What does he do now? She has no idea. But her son is looking at her like he did as a little boy when he'd scraped a knee or told a lie. Like he'd looked as a teen before a school dance, or the morning after he'd snuck out the window and onto the streets of New York for a night of fun. He's anxious and scared, terrified of not being enough, and guilty; his face practically screams guilt. He called her 'Mom'. He _never _calls her 'Mom'.

He has nothing to be guilty about, but so far he's refused to accept that. He'd spent the previous evening after being booted from the precinct wildly swinging from abject despair to pent-up energy, never failing to settle on self-reproach for not being at Katherine's side when she was taken.

It reminds her of the months _he _was gone, when she'd come into her son's office and place a glass of wine on the desk before his fiancé like a peace offering, gently prying her away from her makeshift headquarters and nudging her back into reality. The three months her son were gone were brutal. If it wasn't bad enough that Richard was gone, she'd pretty much lost Katherine as well. First to a seemingly endless drive to find him, the woman living on nothing but adrenaline and precinct coffee, and then as the weeks went on, to a quiet, remorseful shell of her former self, shackled to a persona of normality by day and fixated recluse by night. The quiet moments in the wee hours before dawn were the only time she could get through to Katherine. They'd share a glass of wine and reminisce, recalling her son's quirks and idiosyncrasies, and in that time Martha had come to truly love the woman and appreciate why her son would go to such great lengths to follow her all those years.

Martha doesn't know if she can do it again. She'd never admit it out loud, but she's _old_ now. She feels it deep in her bones, every morning when she gets out of bed, feeling not quite as refreshed as she had the day before. She should be tutting about her need for more grandchildren; not desperately trying to hold it together while the world falls apart. And now it appears her deepest desire has come to fruition if the stick still clutched in her son's trembling hand is any indication.

Martha sends up a silent prayer, appealing to any and all gods to keep her daughter in law and unborn grandchild safe. She makes an additional plea for a reserve on untapped strength.

She takes her son's hand and cups it between both of her own, giving him a tight squeeze before gently prying to test from his fingers. Employing the method that worked so well with Katherine, she does her best to answer his question.

"So, where did you find this?" she inquires, gesturing the stick and aiming for lighthearted, although it feels forced even to her own ears.

"I... uh, what does it even matter?" he asks, monotone.

"Well, for one, I know your wife, and she wouldn't just _leave_ this laying about. No that girl had a plan, am I right?"

He nods his head, an eye flicking towards the ghastly statue he insists on keeping in the bathroom. She thinks she might detect a small upward quirk of his lips. He nods and she continues.

"Well then, when she gets back, she's going to need a little normalcy. And if surprising you was what she had in mind yesterday morning, then it simply won't do to take away her moment, will it?"

He shakes his head, agreeing with her, and she takes it as a good sign that he's beginning to engage with her, albeit by body language alone. She heads to the statue and begins to place the test in its hands when Richard intervenes, turning it around and placing it in cap first.

"Perfect," she calls, a little too loud, her voice echoing off the tiled shower stall walls. The situation is anything but perfect and she cringes. "Now, let's see about getting you a shower and a shave and then we can discuss how we are going to get our girl back. Sound good?"

She hasn't really given him any other option and she hovers close, not letting him fall back to the floor. He nods and begins to strip his clothes off. Martha takes that as her cue to leave and ends up in the bedroom, too tired to go back upstairs, the loft too lonely to go out to the living room, and honestly, too worried about her son to go any father afield. She settles for the bed, distracting herself by smoothing out the bed sheets and straightening the covers. She's just plumping up the pillows and fussing with the details when her son reappears, towel around his waist, barely having bothered to dry himself. He stands at the threshold to the bedroom looking bewildered and a little dazed. Water drips from his hair and it's so eerily quiet. It's probably her imagination but she thinks she can hear the plip-plop of every wet bead as it hits the wooden floor.

"Mother, you didn't have to do that," he suddenly says, startling her; his eyes tell the tale of a man on edge.

"Katherine is going to need a comfortable bed when she gets back. It's the least I can do," Martha replies, and sets about straightening knickknacks on the dresser while Richard heads to the closet for a change of clothes.

"Mother, please!" he growls from within the walk-in. "Please, just stop. I don't want a reminder of our foolishness if.. she doesn't come back."

She really can't blame the man. But he needs to hold on to hope as well. She needs to find the right button to push, the button that will spur her son into a solution without getting himself, or Katherine, killed. Her current tack isn't getting either of them anywhere. Denial might have spurred him into the shower, but it's not going to find Kate. They both know what they are up against, the foe who is working against them. For months after her son had been held hostage in that motel room, he'd obsessed over what made a man like that tick, what he could have done differently and what he'd do in the future should they meet. With each ensuing encounter, he'd delved deeper into the psyche of such killers, reading with voracity everything he could to try and learn the truth. Richard has spent years researching this madman who's taken Kate. If _anyone_ can find Jerry Tyson, it's her son. If anyone can bring Katherine back, her _grandchild_ back, it's him.

It brews quickly in her, She's mad. Astonishingly, completely, foot-stomping mad.

"No! How dare you?" she accuses, striding over to the closet door and trapping him within. "How dare you give up?"

His mouth drops open and fire flashes in his eyes. Good. It's about time he snaps out of the self-loathing funk and gets his wife back.

"Mother, I don't think you reali-" He hangs his head and shuffles his feet. Anger sizzles beneath the surface, overpowered by sorrow; he's looking like he's going to give up hope.

"No," she cuts him off, and lifts his chin, making sure he's going to keep eye contact before continuing. Tough love is what's needed and she's going to give it to him. "I don't think _you_ realize how hard your wife fought for you when you were gone. How long and hard and tirelessly she worked to bring you home. You do _not_ get to give up on her now. You do _not_ get to give up on your child."

"I don't know where to look!" he implores her, running a hand roughly through his hair. "All the evidence, everything I've gone through, there's just… nothing, no proof that even suggests Tyson has her."

He pulls a shirt from the closet and shoves his arms into the sleeves, securing the buttons with more force than is necessary. He pushes past her and into the bedroom, pacing like a caged lion, anger rolling off him in waves.

"Evidence," Martha scoffs, trailing him, not letting him yield to despair again. "You've forgotten yourself, darling."

"Do you think that she had it easy? Do you think that finding you was any different?" Her voice shakes at the memory of hopeless tears, the hidden sobs when Katherine thought she wouldn't notice. But she has to continue, Katherine's life depends on her pushing her son to the breaking point.

He turns, planting his feet and raising an eyebrow, chin held high. His ego tends to get in the way sometimes, but Martha thinks she can use it to her advantage. To everyone's advantage.

"Since when did you ever need proof? What happened to the story?"

"I…"

"You've gotten so caught up in playing cop, you've forgotten what you're best at. Katherine doesn't need a cop; she's got an entire police force out there looking for her. What Katherine needs, right now, is _you_."

* * *

His mother leaves the room, leaving him behind with a soothing caress to his cheek and a prompt.

"The story…" he considers. _We need the story._ He haphazardly combs his fingers through his wet hair, striding to his office and opening his laptop. It's been a while, and he thought that he'd never have to pull this together again, not these pictures and not her name typed up in the familiar interface. The smart board comes to life in an instant, and with it, a web of evidence and pictures glowing unnervingly into the darkened room as he puts it together quickly, the information flowing easily, born out of repetition and obsession. He sets about eliminating people, striking through their names and faces, arranging timelines that aren't linear but instead create a narration that spans before him with more questions than answers.

He takes a step back from the outpouring of facts and theories, pacing around his study and looking at the board from a different light, from a different angle, willing his brain to create permutations that will open doors for him. Even though frustration swells unbridled, he finds solace in the fact that he can't get more blocked than he is right now.

_What have they been doing wrong? Or more importantly, what could they do differently? _They've been working backwards; falling deeper and deeper into a path led by the perplexing evidence, focusing on Kelly Nieman and that damning call. Focusing on a man who continues to play with their psyches, on a man whom he's sure will eventually let the mask fall and reveal how much he's enjoying watching them fail.

But, _what if..?_

He's doing what every half assed reader does, letting impatience reign over his better judgment. _Start from the beginning_; _re-read the book_. Tyson's narrative has to have a loose end…

He needs to go back to when Tyson was a lesser threat, back when emotions didn't cloud his mind and this was just a case... Back when every fiber in him didn't feel the need to murder this man. He needs to look at it with eyes of detached clarity, of a writer finding the plot points and the hills and valleys of the hero's arc.

What is the call to action? What is the inciting incident?

He lets himself fall onto the soft cushions of his leather couch, his chin resting between his aching hands and his eyes focused on a grid that blurs before him. Concentrated in the board before him the world starts to spin; out of tiredness, out of grief. Letters lose weight, pictures fade… until one face alone stands out to him. Dirty blonde hair and cold, grey eyes. An arrogant smirk.

He gets up, holding his breath as if any sudden movement might make him lose the hope in this new lead, in this new hope that he can find his way back to her and the hope of new life.

The man that introduced him to this world he wishes he had never known.

"Marcus Gates…"

* * *

**Authors' note:**

**We write because we don't know of another habit where we can live in fantasies born of maddening discussion while being too far apart. This is an insert we'd hoped to see in 7x15 - "Reckoning" - Will we? Only a few days left to find out.**

**We thank each other and all of you that kicked our asses to write this. A promise is a promise. We'd love to hear your thoughts!**

**BWJournal &amp; KyinHI**


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