UNTIL YOU WERE GONE
A post-1x10 AU

Ice cold, I freeze up when I see ya
Left you just to find out that I need ya
So far, I wanna pull you closer
I wish we could start the whole thing over

Until You Were Gone - The Chainsmokers and Tritonal

May, 2009

She knows something's wrong.

He can tell by the set of her shoulders, the way the smile fades from her lips. He hates to see that the most, hates himself for being the one to put the frown back on her face. She's loosened up so much over the past ten weeks, has let him see more of her personality with every passing day, and he wishes that he didn't have to break her heart.

Her words echo in his mind even now, a vow that they'd be over if he looked into her mom's case. But as much as he doesn't want this partnership to end, this budding friendship or whatever it is, he also can't keep what he's learned from her. It would eat him alive.

"It's about your mother."

She looks down for a moment, and when her eyes meet his again they're cold, her gaze as steely as the day they met. "What about my mother?"

He resists the urge to follow her when she takes another step back, allows her to have the physical space she needs. "I know what you said-"

"How I didn't want you touching my mom's case?" she interrupts, eyes blazing. She crosses her arms in front of her chest. "You got the file, didn't you? You…" She trails off with a scoff and a shake of her head. "One thing, Rick. I asked one thing."

He winces at the way she spits out his name. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't."

"But Kate, I found-"

"Nothing," she snaps. "You found nothing." She shakes her head and turns on her heel. "Goodbye, Castle."

She doesn't even pause when he calls her name, and his heart sinks as he watches her walk away, her strides long and sure. He waits for a few minutes, hoping she reappears, but she doesn't. With a heavy sigh, he shoves his hands in his pockets and leaves.

"Why the hell did you do it?"

He looks up from his computer in surprise to see Beckett at his office door, arms crossed again, looking even more pissed than she did before. He shuts his laptop as he stands, and steps around his desk, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "I didn't really think I'd-"

"No, you didn't," she snaps, and oh, she's really pissed. "You didn't think. You just did what you wanted, my wishes be damned." She shakes her head. "God, you really are a selfish ass, aren't you?"

"Now hang on." Castle takes a few steps closer. "I did this for you. To try and find closure for you."

She scoffs and turns to leave. "For me? No, Rick. You did this for yourself."

"What if I found something?"

His words make her hesitate, and he sees her knuckles blanche on the doorframe, her spine straighten. When she speaks there's a slight tremble to her voice, and he resists the urge to close the distance between them and rest a reassuring hand on her back.

"Did you?"

"I think so."

She dips her head for a moment before facing him again. "Tell me."

He tells her about the stab wounds, that the murder may have been connected with others, that it may not have been a random event after all. She doesn't move the whole time he talks, just holds onto the door, her eyes boring into him.

"It's a good lead." When she just shakes her head, he presses further. "A strong lead. We can solve it, Kate. Together we-"

"Just stop. Please."

He's never heard her beg for anything, but she's close, closer than he's heard in their short partnership. So he stops talking, lets her take it in, watches her visibly compose herself. She does her best to keep her face neutral, but he's watched her enough to know her tells.

Her jaw is set, hands balled into fists at her side and gaze on the floor in front of his feet. "It doesn't matter," she finally says in a low voice. After a long moment she lifts her gaze to his. "Did it cross your mind that maybe I don't want to know anymore? That the thought of finding the bastard who killed her, only to watch him cut a deal that has him back on the streets in ten years, makes me nauseous?"

He can only blink. No, that thought didn't cross his mind. He assumed that her need for justice wasn't just for the victims and families she encountered in her job, but also for herself. That her desire to find her mother's killer had only been dampered, just waiting for the spark that would fan the flame again, a spark that he'd assumed he could provide.

She pushes herself off the door. "I put it behind me a long time ago. You didn't do this for me, Rick. You did it for yourself. You went behind my back, and worse, you betrayed my trust." She takes a step towards him, then seems to reconsider and turns away. "We're done."

Four Years Later

He should be writing. He should be up in his room, working on his outline for the next book, but he isn't. He's tired, so tired, tired of traveling, of plastering a smile on his face while he promotes his new book. Tired of saying how humbled he is that he'd been chosen to continue the story of James Bond, how it was a childhood dream come true.

It was, of course; he'd been ecstatic when the offer had come on the heels of Heat Wave's success. It had been a perfect opportunity, the chance to distance himself from Beckett, from New York. But four years in London hadn't provided him the peace he'd been looking for. Not a day went by that he didn't think of her, second guess his decision to look into her mother's murder.

He'd called her several times, had sent dozens of texts, asking for her forgiveness, for the chance to explain. But when they went unresponded, and eventually unread, he stopped. There had been no point in continuing to try to speak to someone who wanted nothing to do with him.

He scoffs into his empty glass after draining his scotch, motions for another. He longs for home, to be back at the loft. He has one more Bond to write, but he'd gotten all the research he needed. So he sold the small London flat he'd been living in, and after his last few signings in DC and one more meeting with the Black Pawn corporate office, he's taking a break. No writing, no interviews, just home.

He closes his tab, providing his room number for the charge, but as he steps off the barstool his eye catches a familiar profile at the other end of the room.

Her hair is long and wavy now, and covers most of her face, but when she tucks it behind her ear with long, slender fingers, he feels his heart seize in his chest. She's across the room from him, but the bar is empty enough that her voice carries when she orders a vodka martini, and oh, it's definitely her.

She pulls out her phone, the screen illuminating her face, and he just sits back down, watches her. She's even more beautiful than she was four years ago, when she'd walked out of his life with an angry set to her jaw and hurt in her eyes.

He can see her brow furrow, and by the way she draws her bottom lip between her teeth tells him she doesn't like what she sees on her screen. Obviously she hasn't shaken that habit, and his eyes are drawn to her mouth just like they were four years ago. She sets her phone face down on the table, then finishes her drink and motions to the waiter. When she leans back in her seat with a heavy sigh and runs her fingers through her hair, he stands.

They hadn't parted on good terms, of course, but he's hoping that time and distance will have softened her, made her more receptive to seeing him again.

"Beckett?"

She sighs as she sags against the door, closes her eyes for a few moments to collect herself. The interview had gone well, she thinks, but as she moves towards her suitcase, unbuttoning her shirt on the way, she starts second guessing every answer she'd given.

She's more than qualified for the position, the FBI recruiter had admitted, but it was a competitive process, with thousands of hopefuls applying for just a few open jobs. Just getting an interview had been a long shot. So she had nothing to do now except wait.

She reaches for her jeans instead of her yoga pants; she's tired, but she doesn't want to just lounge in her hotel room for the rest of the night. After changing into a more comfortable sweater and shoes, she grabs her wallet and heads out the door for a walk.

She walks along the National Mall, past the Lincoln Memorial and the museums that dot the popular area, all the way to the Capitol Building before the rumble of her stomach becomes too much to ignore. The restaurant she stops at is busy and overpriced, but satisfying, and although she goes back to the hotel after eating, she's still not ready to call it a night.

The bar is almost empty, not unexpected after 9:00 on a Tuesday, and she sits against the wall, sets her phone on the table. The lone waiter is quick to appear, and she orders a vodka martini, tucks an errant hair behind her ear. She glances at her phone, scowling in frustration when she sees the long message from Tom.

She hadn't told him why she was coming to DC, and it had bothered him. They'd been seeing each other off and on for three years after meeting on a robbery-homicide, and had only just agreed to be in a monogamous relationship. But she changes the subject any time he wants to talk about their future, and she knows why. He's nice, tender, a good boyfriend, a great detective.

But she can't see herself with him long-term. She also can't bring herself to end it. It isn't fair to either of them, so when she'd landed an interview with the FBI, she'd decided to make a short vacation out of it. Maybe being away from New York, away from Tom, would help clear her head. Apparently, it had the same effect on him: his message details his frustrations, his inability to understand why she doesn't want to move forward in their relationship. They're long overdue for a talk, but she already knows what the end result will be.

She finishes her drink quickly, but doesn't even have the chance to order a second when she hears a familiar voice, one that she hasn't heard in person in four years.

"Beckett?"

She looks up in surprise, her mouth dropping open at the sight of Castle standing in front of her. "Castle."

Even in the low light she can see the blush across his cheeks. "I thought that was you. Of all the bars in all the cities, huh?"

"Yeah...what are you doing here?"

"Book tour. I have a few signings tomorrow." Castle motions to her empty glass. "Buy you another?"

"No, I couldn't-"

"Nonsense." He waves at the waiter, who materializes with another martini for her and what looks to be scotch for him. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Beckett hesitates, but the look in his eyes is so hopeful that she can't turn him down. Even after four years, she can't say no. It's why she'd had to cut off all contact when they'd parted ways before. "That's fine."

They sip in silence for a few long moments, but just when she's about to excuse herself, he speaks again.

"What are you doing in DC?"

She considers. She hadn't told anyone about her interview, not even Lanie, but Castle isn't in contact with Ryan or Esposito either. The chances are slim that it will get back to anyone in the precinct, but still, she can't risk it. "Just a short getaway," she lies, wrapping her fingers around the stem of the martini glass. "I needed to take a few days off, so here I am."

Castle nods. "I see. Are you…" He clears his throat. "Are you here with anyone?"

"Nope."

His brow lifts, presumably at her sharp tone, but he simply takes another drink instead of responding. "So, how are you?" he asks after another long silence.

"I'm good." It isn't a complete lie, she tells herself. "Busy."

"Murder never sleeps, huh?"

The corner of her mouth quirks against her will, but she steels herself before he can think that they're okay. "Something like that." She can feel his eyes on her when she drops her gaze to the table, to her finger tapping the base of her glass. "Congratulations, by the way," she finally says, trusting herself to meeting his eyes once again.

He cocks his head, a gesture that sends a pang through her chest; apparently she'd missed him more than she'd admitted to herself. "For what?"

"The books." She lifts a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "I've heard good things about them," she lies. She's read them, of course, devoured his words as she has her entire adult life.

"Ah. Thanks, I worked hard on them." He breaks eye contact with her and looks down, the pad of a pointer finger tracing the rim of his almost-empty glass.

He mutters something under his breath, and she leans forward so she can hear him. "What?"

He sighs and pushes his chair back. "Writing them has been a dream come true," he repeats, his words robotic, as if he's said them more times than he can count. He drains his scotch before standing, and he moves to her side of the table, holds out his hand. "Wanna get out of here?"

She eyes his outstretched fingers, then meets his eyes. His gaze is dark and mysterious, a pointed stare that has something unfurling deep in her belly, the beginning pangs of desire in her bloodstream. She glances at her phone once more and, seeing nothing from Tom, finishes her own drink. "Your room or mine?"

He wakes alone in his bed, the suite empty save for him. The memories hit him all at once as he shakes the fog of sleep from his head: seeing Beckett, their brief conversation, an invitation to his room.

She's been gone for hours, but her presence is all around him; he can still smell her, the faint scent of her perfume, despite the short amount of time that she'd been in his room. She'd joined him long enough to order room service, but had left as soon as the food was gone, claimed she had an early flight.

He finds the note on the end table when he goes to leave for his first book signing, and he doesn't care that he's already running late, opens the envelope with shaking fingers. He lets out a muttered curse when he reads her familiar swirl.

I'm sorry.

She calls Tom as soon as she lands the next morning, isn't sure whether she actually wants him to answer until the sound of his voice mail greeting has her sighing in relief. Her message is a quick "Call me when you're off."

Her heart aches with the knowledge that she'd almost slept with Castle, that she hadn't had the guts to break up with Tom before even leaving for DC. Sure, she'd left Castle's room before she could give into temptation, but…

Her thoughts are interrupted with the shrill ring of her phone. She winces when she sees the caller. "Hey, Tom," she greets on a sigh, and she hears the background noise fade, as if he stepped into another room at the precinct. "Are you off today?"

"No," Tom says, "but we can't put it off anymore."

"You're right." She's about to ask him to meet for coffee or lunch, so they can talk in person, but he beats her to it.

"I think we both know it's been over for awhile, Kate."

She nods for a moment before remembering that he can't see her. "I'm so sorry, Tom. You're a great guy, just…"

"Not for you," he finishes. There's a long pause before he continues. "I don't get it, Kate. Why you couldn't just open up a little more. Or maybe you could, but you didn't want to." He pauses again. "Is - is it me?"

Kate shakes her head as she answers. "No, not at all. It's me. You deserve someone who can love you as much as you love them. And I...can't. Not with you." She shrugs. "Maybe not with anyone."

"You can. You'll find someone too, if you want to." Tom sighs, and when he speaks again there's a finality to his voice. "Good luck, Kate. I wish you the best."

Kate smiles, despite the way her heart breaks a little from the resigned tone to his voice. "You too, Tom."

Despite their long relationship they'd rarely spent the night at each other's apartment, and she doesn't find any of his belongings, doesn't think he has any of hers. She takes the opportunity of the day off to unpack and sort out her laundry, tries to occupy herself with menial tasks to keep her mind off of the handsome, blue-eyed author that she'd reconnected with.

It was just one night, she tries to tell herself as she hauls her laundry basket to the basement, and we only talked a little, just caught up.

She curses when she hits her hand on the doorway, almost dropping the basket. She props the basket on her hip as she shakes out her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist as she takes a moment to gather her thoughts.

She'd left Castle's room before she could do something stupid like cheat on her boyfriend, but in the span of just a few short hours, Richard Castle had wormed his way back to the forefront of her thoughts, distracting her to the point of clumsiness. And not for the first time since she'd bid him a good night just hours before, she wonders if his phone number is the same.

Shit.

He mutters a curse when he sees the voice mail from early afternoon, from a call he vaguely remembers ignoring. It had come in as he was walking into his second book signing of the day, and he dials it now, punches in his pass code as he settles on the couch in his suite.

"Castle, hey, it's me. Uh, Beckett."

He sits up in surprise at the sound of Beckett's voice through the speaker, warm and familiar.

"I figured I'd try you, see if your number was the same, and obviously it is." She chuckles quietly, and he can imagine her shaking her head at herself. "Anyway, I'm back in New York now, figured I'd see when you're coming back. Maybe we can get together when you do? Meet for coffee?"

She falls silent, and he wonders if she'd drawn her bottom lip between her teeth in thought. He fumbles for the hotel-provided pad of paper and pen, draws a quick swirl to make sure the pen works so he can write down her phone number.

"Uh, call me when you can, I guess." She recites her number and he scribbles it down, dials it immediately after erasing the message. His heart is in his throat as it rings, and he curses himself for not waiting to call until he'd gotten some semblance of a thought together.

"Hello?"

She answers with a lightness in her voice, a slightly airy sound that makes him wonder what he interrupted. Hopefully she wasn't otherwise occupied, but she hadn't said anything about having a boyfriend. Although, she'd ignored when he'd asked, so she could…

"Castle? Are you there?"

Her voice brings him back to the task at hand and he feels his face flush. "Sorry," he apologizes,"yeah, I am. How are you?" He frowns when he hears a loud bang. "Where are you?"

She chuckles. "At home, dropping my laundry basket. What are you up to?"

"Just finished a signing, got your message." He leans back on the couch and props his feet on the ottoman. "I have to admit, I'm surprised that you called. It seemed like you couldn't leave fast enough last night."

"Yeah, about that," she sighs. "I had to leave before I did something stupid."

"Wow, thanks." He can't keep the sarcasm from his words, and he hears her sharp inhale through the phone.

"Not like that," she insists, the apology dripping from her voice. "No, I was afraid that we might, you know…"

"Fuck."

"Well, yeah. What I didn't tell you was that I was seeing someone."

He pauses, the bitterness fading, the hurt from her leaving following. She hadn't told him that she'd had a boyfriend, but...he suddenly realizes she'd used the past tense, and he feels the hope bloom in his chest again. "Was?"

"Yeah. Um, I did. We broke up this morning."

"Oh." He pauses again, waiting for her to continue. When she doesn't he prods for more. "Can I ask why?"

"You can ask," she says, her voice turning playful and teasing, "but that doesn't mean I'll answer."

"That scandalous, huh?"

"No. It was just…" She pauses, then lets out a long sigh. "It was time. I needed to let him go."

"Ah. In that case, I'm glad that you left when you did. You could have said so, though, you didn't have to just leave."

"I know, I'm sorry. I panicked. I want to make it up to you, though. When are you back in town? Maybe I can buy you coffee?"

The corners of his lips quirk, and he hums, stalling, considering. He'd thought about her frequently over the past four years, had played their last meetings in his mind over and over again. Running into her like he did had been nothing short of fate, he was sure of it.

From the short interaction they'd had, she seemed like the same woman that he'd known: private, with layers to her personality that she kept well-hidden. They hadn't mentioned his examination of her mom's murder, so he has no idea if she could look past it. But one thing he knows: he wants the opportunity to explore the mystery of Kate Beckett.

"I'm back tomorrow," he finally answers. "Can you meet the next day?"

He can hear her smile through the phone when she answers, and he grins himself at her words.

"It's a date."

-FIN-

A/N: As always, any mistakes are mine, and feedback welcome!