DISCLAIMER: "Castle" and all its wonderful characters are the property of ABC and Andrew Marlowe. Much as I enjoy playing with them, I unfortunately do not own them. Please don't sue me.

He can see her on the street below as she walks away from his building. Hair waving in the wind, shoulders huddled against the harsh cold. Beautiful and strong, even now.

He puts his hand on the window, each fingertip pressed tightly to the cool pane. His forehead follows suit and he sighs, his breath fogging a circle on the glass.

"I can't wait anymore Kate. I can't keep living with my life on hold. I can't keep navigating this limbo you've put us in."

He straightens, shakes off the chill of her presence, puts on his game face and steps back from the window unwilling to watch her turn the corner for the final time. He can survive without her. He must survive without her.

"Castle, pl-please don't-" she pleads.

The clock calls him to sleep even though he feels no desire to dream. It's just the habit that forces him across the room towards his bathroom. He goes through the routine just like he did yesterday. As though nothing has changed even though the opposite is true.

"I've been patient. Waited for that wall to come down. But Kate, I don't think it ever will. There's always something in the way."

He sheds his clothes with deliberate care. First his shoes, which he sets back in the void on the floor of his closet. Next his blue button-down shirt and black slacks, which still smell like a precinct he will likely never again visit, are dropped into the laundry basket, followed quickly by his black dress socks. He digs into his chest of drawers for a pair of plaid pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt. He pulls them on with practiced ease, reveling in their soft warmth.

"And your mom's case? We just keep going down the hole deeper and deeper. There's no end. Can't you see that?"

He pads barefoot into the bathroom and reaches for his toothbrush, applies a helping of toothpaste and begins the ritual cleaning. He knows these things by heart and there is solid comfort in that. Life goes on. It must.

"You've invested your life, everything you have, in solving her murder. And as a result there's no room for me there. There's no room for her and us...But it doesn't have to be that way."

Back and forth the brush goes, emitting the familiar sound of nylon bristles scratching on enamel. This has not changed. He bends over to spit. With a flick he twists the faucet open, cupping a handful of water which he slurps up and swishes around in his mouth. Tomorrow this will not change. He spits out the remaining toothpaste and saliva. He runs his tongue over his pearly smooth teeth with pride. Then he sets his toothbrush and toothpaste back in their regular spots, where they were this morning and last night and where they will be tomorrow morning and tomorrow night.

"Montgomery said that life is about picking your battles. And Kate, here's where I make my stand."

He squirts a pump of face wash into his hands and dabs it on his cheeks. When he rubs it into the soft skin he can feel the beads cleanse his pores. This soap has a refreshing tingle and he relishes the way it scours his skin. A splash of water removes the suds and he blindly reaches for a towel to wipe the residue away.

"I love you. I love you and either that's enough or it isn't."

He pauses to look at himself in the mirror. Five o'clock shadow accentuates his pale complexion, but he looks otherwise unharmed. This will not change. He replaces the towel on the rack neatly. Then heads back into his bedroom with purpose. He flicks off the lights on his way and climbs into bed. Slipping beneath the cool blue sheets, he nestles into a comfortable position and closes his eyes. This will not change either.

"Rick..." she strains.

Tomorrow he will wake and the reality of his decision will hit him when there is no text or call summoning him to her side at a crime scene.

"Is it? Is it enough?"

When he brews his coffee and has no need to prepare a second cup.

"Rick please..."

When he stares at the emptiness of his loft and realizes that he has nothing to do. Nowhere to be. No one to see. When he opens his laptop to an empty screen and realizes that there is nothing left to write about.

"I'm sorry Kate. I'm so sorry."

When he realizes that it's time to start all over. Without her.

But for now, he has his routines. With or without her, he has his routines. Life goes on. The little things remain, will always remain. And that is a small comfort at least.

A/N – Routines (or Castle Gets Ready for Bed as I've taken to calling it) flowed out during a free writing exercise and since it was mostly coherent I just decided to polish it up a bit into a one-shot. I was slightly inspired by reflecting on loss recently. My cousin lost his wife of one year suddenly to an aneurysm in December and it got me thinking about how we deal with devastating loss. Everything may be falling apart around us, but we still have to brush our teeth. It's an odd thing to think about. Something else to note, I don't believe Castle would come to the point of giving Beckett an ultimatum like this. And if he did I totally believe that she'd jump into his arms in an instant rather than lose him. But people surprise us all the time so this is a what-if-they-were-both-colossal-idiots scenario.

As always I'd appreciate reviews, even a simple "like" or "dislike."

Fight On for Ol' SC and You'll Never Walk Alone