Prologue- It Always Ends Like This

The darkness is almost bearable now, her world reduced to the subtle contrast of blacks and grays like those classic movies her mother had always loved. Muted sunlight edges past a slit in the curtains and casts a line that traipses slowly along the wall, its journey the only marker of time.

How long has she been here? A few hours, maybe a day?

The murky recesses of Kate's mind can no longer keep track. All of what little energy she has left is wasted in the tremors that rake through her body as it reacts to the noxious substance pumping through her veins. She tries to focus on the light as it offers up a sliver of color, a brilliant gold reflected from the brass handle of an antique wooden night stand next to the bed. Her eyes struggle to focus and the shape of a lamp comes at her in double. She doesn't even bother trying to turn it on. She knows it doesn't work; the bulb has been removed.

He means to keep his prisoner in darkness.

She tries to swallow, but her tongue is thick against the roof of her mouth so she coughs weakly instead, her stomach echoing the sound with a growl. She can't recall the last time she had anything to eat, but she's certain that he at least brings her water because the sheets are damp with sweat. Without the strength to hold up her hand let alone lift a glass, she knows he must come to her, knows he must trickle the liquid past her parched lips and over the cobblestones of her throat. She's fairly certain that the water is laced with whatever poison has turned her into this quivering mess, but she's so thirsty, she accepts it anyway.

Kate tries to survey her surroundings, but she can't see much beyond the foot of the bed frame. Despite the plush bedding, she's never been so uncomfortable in her life, and with each turn of her body against the pillow-top mattress, the sheets wrap more tightly, enveloping her like a mummy's shroud. She can't get over how incredibly hot she feels. She never expected dying could be this warm, after all, she knows death. She's experienced it. She remembers the cool burn as the bullet had buried itself in her chest- an icy dark veil suddenly covering her, curling swiftly as it squeezed soul from flesh.

But this time it's different. It's a stifling, drawn-out affair. She'd choose a bullet any day.

Her biceps tremble uncontrollably as she pushes up on her hands, trying to turn against the constraints of the bedding, but she's just too weak. As she slumps back against the pillow, blood rushes to her head with a jolt that slices through her temples. The ensuing pounding in her skull thrums through her bones down into her spinal column. It finally disperses into her ribs, and for a moment, the sensation threatens to overtake the beats of her heart as white pain dots her field of vision.

God, she would kill for a couple of aspirin and some ice water. And a cool shower, or even better, a bath.

Her thoughts are tangential at this point, tied together by a thin stream of logic as her mind seeks comfort in pleasant visions of her treasured baths. She breathes slowly, sinking deeper into her memories as she tries to escape the hold this harsh reality has on her. The earthy tones of wine intertwine with delicate floral hues to tickle her nostrils, and she whimpers as the bunched muscles in her back slacken every so slightly. Tepid water soothes while bubbles cling to her skin, lifting her until she feels almost weightless. Her fingers stretch out and a familiar crispness replaces the sticky cotton sheet.

Paper? No, pages.

She opens her eyes then and starts to make out some words. The bold font is neat and orderly, so reassuring to her eyes. A book. His book.

Castle.

And just like that the bubbles and wine vanish and her fingers flex, slicing right through the pages. She is back on the bed and Richard Castle is suddenly before her. She can't quite make out his face, but her eyes know the shape of his body well. As he walks towards her, the shadows that cloak his face morph into rough features- the strong muscles of his neck and jaw, the slant of his nose, the line of his lips that curls knowingly- like he's keeping a secret, hoping to surprise her.

Secrets.

She exhales slowly in frustration. Secrets- that's what got her into this position in the first place. First Montgomery's secret that then became Castle's burden, and then Kate's own. The one that had kept her awake so many nights thinking of him and how he might feel against her, inside of her- how he would smell and taste. The secret feelings that made her stomach flip each time his fingers brushed innocently against hers with the ritual giving of her morning coffee.

He had tried to keep his true feelings from her as well, but she had known the truth even before he said the words to her as she lay bleeding out in the cemetery on that crisp May morning. And even if he hasn't said them to her since, she knows his feelings haven't changed. She had seen it every time he looked at her during the last few weeks as they worked tirelessly to piece together the clues leading to her mother's killer.

She remembers saying goodbye to him before coming to this place. His lips had said simply: "Be safe, Beckett." But those expressive blue eyes had echoed a different three words, his gaze penetrating her façade to find the embers of her heart softly aglow in the darkness of her misgivings: I love you.

This love is the only reason he'd stood by her despite all of the hurt and danger- and it's the only reason she'd let him.

The room is suddenly spinning and out of focus again and she grabs at the edge of the mattress trying to stay grounded. She knows she should have told him, should have said the words when she had the chance. Her stomach twists in disgust at her own cowardice. God, she's screwed up royally this time.

Her eyes search the shadows- the figure is still there but it's hazy, fading in and out against the darkness. She tries to call out, opening her mouth to speak.

Castle.

She feels his name tingle against her lips, but no sound follows and her breath quickly settles back into her chest triggering another coughing spell. Yet even without calling him, he comes nearer. Somehow he still hears her, knows what she needs, just like he always has through the years.

His features twist in concern as he peers down and then a hand lifts towards her, almost comes to lay on her cheek. She shudders, swears she can feel the air expanding, electric in the shared heat between their skin. She waits for his touch, needs it so desperately, but she knows it will never come.

They've been here before. It's the same scene she has relived again and again in her state of delirium. Still, she hopes that maybe if she can manage a word or a touch, that it will be real, that he will be real this time.

And he's so very close now, closer than he's ever been before. She just wishes her body would cooperate. She needs to explain, she needs to tell him what he means to her, that she hasn't stopped caring. But instead she just sinks further into the mattress as he watches her. A feeble breath enters her lungs and she fears she can't endure this torture much longer. She closes her eyes, breathes in again and imagines the last time she saw him, the real him.

He had been in a tuxedo, smelling of his expensive aftershave and a splash of scotch from the evening's festivities. Her body shivers at the phantom touch of his broad hands holding the curve of her waist, skirting the bareness of her back as they had moved to the music. She envisions him whispering into her ear, lips falling to her shoulder, then rising to sweep her brow, her cheek, the corners of her mouth- there and there.

But of course he's not really touching her. She opens her eyes and stares back at this carbon-copy of him as he observes her in silence. Her mind has almost compensated for the details now- the small scar on his forehead, the tug of muscle at his lips as he smiles, the almost imperceptible flicker of lashes as his eyelids slide shut.

The disappointment rises in her chest as his face hovers over hers, his eyes opening slowly as she sees what she already knows will be.

Gray.

These eyes are the deepest of grays, like a fog clinging to dusk, only the faintest glow of light escaping them. Still, they are captivating, and she feels herself quickly being engulfed by their calm depths.

For a moment she thinks she could be happy with this version of him. She could forget all this hell, the emotions, just let it all go and lose herself, give in to the gray. But her feeling of peace lasts no longer than a single beat of her racing heart. She recalls the man she trusts with her life, the man whose eyes are endless swirls of blue, full of boundless energy like the stormy sea on a summer's day. Yes, he is the man she wants to find herself with.

And this man is not him, not her Castle. The shadows have toyed with her mind once again. She wants to yell or sob or both, but all she can do is lay perfectly still as the eyes blink once and then dissolve into the nothing that surrounds her.

She would be relieved, but she knows he'll be back- those gray eyes haunting her. Yes, they'll be back.

It always ends like this.

So yea- it's been a while.

This story is inspired by the great Hitchcock thriller of the same name starring Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, and Claude Rains. I've been toying with the idea of for a while and finally am getting the courage to start posting it. We'll see how it goes- I'm feeling a bit rusty.

Hope you enjoy.

-KB