A/N: This is a collection of unrelated ficlets originally posted on my tumblr account. Almost all of them are based upon some sort of graphic, so I will include a modified link to those at the top of each chapter. While you don't have to look at the visuals, I do think they add an important element to the moments I've attempted to capture.

Also, each chapter may be a different rating and genre, so I will be sure to specify those for each individual ficlet. Please feel free to skip anything that does not appeal to you!

Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 111713258652
Rated K+
Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Set after The Limey (4x20)

She'd lost count of how many scraps of paper had been discarded since last week's appointment with Dr. Burke. Scribbled notes with honest words, only to be torn apart, crumpled up, or occasionally even burned. He'd explained something about physically ridding herself of the negative thoughts that were still holding her back, keeping her from being more than who she is. They both knew she wouldn't commit to a full journal, but jotting down her fears in the moment? A sentence here and there to help exorcise the demons? Even she could manage that.

It was just too bad that it didn't matter anymore

Castle had given up on her.

She didn't know where things had gone so wrong; it had seemed like they were getting closer to being the elusive them,and the recent bombing case had provided a sense of urgency she was ready to embrace. There wasn't a guarantee of more time, no reason to keep kicking at her wall alone when they could break it down together. But something had happened and he'd let go of the weight of her issues in favor of someone busty and blonde. Someone fun and uncomplicated. She's none of those things, and her chest constricts at the thought.

Still, becoming more was never just about him, so she takes a long, deep breath and adds the pain of losing him to the list of ills she needs to purge.

He isn't supposed to be at the precinct at all. Beckett has paperwork to do following the success she'd shared with Scotland Yard's finest, so he's able to use it as a convenient excuse to stay home all day. Unfortunately, somewhere between dinner and dessert with Jacinda the night before, he'd remembered that his most recent burst of creative energy had resulted in several paragraphs written on one of Beckett's notepads and left in her desk drawer. In a twist of fate that lesser authors would love, he's distancing himself from his muse just as Nikki Heat is tightening her grip on him with no plans to let him go.

Rubbing a hand over his face in an attempt to summon a more neutral expression, he steps off the elevator and moves quickly toward her desk. He looks around the bullpen for her, out of habit more than anything else, and is relieved to see her in a meeting with Gates and the boys; it doesn't look like they'll be done any time soon and there is no reason she needs to know he's here.

He makes himself comfortable in her chair and opens the drawer where he'd left his half-written chapter, his eyes drawn to a pink notepad he hadn't seen before. It looks like she'd been in the middle of a sentence when she'd left for the meeting, the declaration stopping abruptly, the pen leaving a haphazard mark where she'd dropped it.

Oh, Kate. No.

I wasn't a good enough reason for my father to

To what? To put down the bottle? To be a dad to a 19-year-old who'd just had her idyllic childhood swapped for adulthood hell?

With an almost accidental glance at the trashcan by his foot, he finds a pile of pink notes that have been wadded up and thrown away. There is no justification for digging through her trash, especially when he's so firmly insisting that she doesn't matter anymore, but he can't help but reach down. He opens them up, one by one.

My mom would be so disappointed in me.

I deserve all the nightmares that keep me up at night.

No child should be stuck with me as his or her mother.

And then he feels the guilt sink low in his gut, nauseating and threatening to double him over.

If Castle gave up on me, so will everyone else.

There's a degree of difficulty in dealing with me.

He's certain that final one is a result of the offhand insult he'd tossed her way before he'd left her alone at the precinct, extolling Jacinda's virtues when the reference to Kate was obvious. It was unnecessary, and the same could be said about most of his recent behavior. Sure, she'd hurt him and he has every right to be angry, but she has every right to an actual conversation about it. His frustration has gone too far and he aches, looking up at Gates' office and wondering how he can start to ease the pain he's caused. Even if Kate will never love him, he can't leave her like this.

Rifling through her drawer for an unused notepad, he hurries to share his own thoughts before she returns.

When she finally falls into her chair, eager to finish her paperwork, she notices that the drawer is partially open and she tilts her head in confusion. Then the panic strikes, sharp and dreadful. She'd tossed an unfinished note in there before Gates had called her away. If anyone had seen that…

And someone had.

In place of the one she'd left behind, she sees several of the pieces she'd already discarded with a therapeutic sense of calm. They'd been written and thrown away like the garbage they were, but someone had resurrected them, smoothed them with a love they didn't warrant, and piled for her to revisit. Most importantly, on top of her own notes is a small stack of another's. The familiar scrawl answers her question before it can fully form. Of course.

Then again, it makes no sense for him to have been at the precinct. He'd made it clear that he has better things to do now, so where one question had been so easily answered, a million more appear. She's embarrassed, but the only way to understand is to reach for them, handling them with a reverence she never grants her own confessions.

I was a lonely kid because I wasn't worth anyone's effort.

My relationships don't work because I'm a failure.

When I get hurt, I act out like a child instead of talking about my feelings.

She still doesn't know exactly why he's hurt, but she's certainly felt the effects of the lashing out.

I'm the only one to blame when my love isn't returned.

But it is, Castle. It really is. They're simultaneously so close and so far apart.

At the bottom of his small pile is one of her pink pages, creases disrupting the careful penmanship; the writing is now both hers and his. Just below where she'd admitted that she comes with a high degree of difficulty is his own message, a different kind of profession.

What you see as "difficult," I see as one of the many reasons I love you. I'm sorry I made you feel otherwise. There are a lot of things we should discuss, but until then…you're enough, she'd be so proud, you don't, they'd be blessed, and I will never give up on you. Never.