Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November 10, 2014

She careens behind the ambulance in her cruiser, gumball flashing, sirens blaring, and thoughts racing.

Richard Castle had taken two bullets for her.

Just jumped in front of her. No pause. No hesitation.

And said he loves her.

Loves her.

He doesn't even know her. How could he love her? How could he risk his life for her?

She can't wrap her head around it.

She parks illegally near the ER entrance, not caring if she gets towed and slams her car door shut, hurrying to watch them unload the writer. Worry eats at her when she catches a glimpse of him.

He's hooked up to a million different things and looks as white as a ghost, like the life's drained from him.

Oh, God. Please let him be okay.

The EMTs rush him through the automatic doors.

"Double GSWs, no exits. Tension pneumo in the field. We did a needle decomp and he flatlined in the bus. But we got him back into sinus rhythm. Started him on an IV with fluids. Pulse is weak and thready," one of the first responders barks out.

Doctors take him and ferry him toward a waiting elevator bay, presumably heading toward the surgical floor.

He flatlined.

But they're taking him to surgery. That's a good sign. Means he's still alive. Means he still has a chance.

She stands rooted to the spot, everything around her blurring.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" a nurse in blue scrubs asks.

"What?"

"Are you hurt?" they ask pointedly, nodding down.

Beckett drops her gaze, finding blood-stained hands. Her blood-stained hands.

"No, uh, this isn't mine," she says, "The man they just brought in. The GSWs. I—"

There'd been so much blood. She tried to stop it. Press down on the wound. Staunch the flow. But there had just been so much.

"Why don't you come sit down," the nurse says, gently guiding her to a small row of chairs right off the hallway. "Are you family?"

The Captain sinks into a seat, staring straight ahead, her brain glitching.

"No, uh…"

Moments with Castle play like a flashreel in her mind. The way he smiled at her when they built theory, the way he said her name with familiarity, the way he seemed to read right through her…

"He said he loved me," she says to the nurse in a daze.

"Oh, sweetheart. I'll make sure they give you an update with his family," the nurse replies before leaving to attend to another incoming patient.

"His family," Beckett gasps, some of her shock wearing off. Fumbling for her cell, she quickly dials the precinct. "Ryan? I forgot—someone needs to call…oh, you're on it?" She exhales in relief as her colleague assures her he contacted Castle's mother and daughter when she radioed in earlier. They were en route.

Her head hits the wall as the spike of adrenaline in her veins wears off and exhaustion settles into her bones.

He had to be okay.

He had to.

She moves her cruiser into a designated parking spot and retrieves a backup shirt from her trunk.

She tears off her bloodied camisole in the bathroom, trashing it along with her ruined blazer, and spends twenty minutes scrubbing the heavy smear of the writer's blood off her hands, trembling slightly, before donning her fresh white button-up.

She stares at herself in the mirror, wondering how she got there. Wondering how the hell a man on the back of a book jacket is fighting for his life because of her.

Because I love you, Kate.

How is she supposed to face his family?

He fucking flatlined.

She clutches the edge of the sink and inhales, long and deep. Exhales slowly.

All she can do is treat them like any other next of kin. This is just another case. Just another senseless tragedy.

She snaps a hair tie off her wrist and scrapes her hair into a smooth and tight ponytail, putting her armor back on and transforming into Captain Beckett—the woman who honors the victim.

The woman who has a job to do.

At the waiting room front desk, a raven-haired girl is pestering a nurse for information about Richard Castle, her porcelain face pinched in anger.

"I'm his daughter!" she yells.

"Alexis?" Beckett ventures, remembering her name from an old article about the writer.

She whips toward the Captain, her fury vanishing.

"Yes?"

Beckett sticks her hand out.

"Captain Kate Beckett."

Alexis blanches. "Beckett? You—you're real."

Beckett isn't sure how to interpret that statement, so she offers a somewhat awkward but polite smile.

"Um, yes. Miss Castle, listen. I was with your father—"

"You were with him?" The girl's sky blue eyes flood with hope. "So you know what happened to him? The guy on the phone. He said my dad was shot. Is that true?"

Beckett falters, suddenly unable to speak, choked by the weight of what she's about to do—rob this girl of her innocence; shatter her entire world.

But she can't let her personal emotions cloud this. She owes his family the truth. She steels herself and replies, "Yes. It's true."

Horror claims the young girl's face and Beckett's chest aches.

"I don't understand. How'd this happen?"

He's not dead yet. At least there's that. At least she can give her something to hold onto.

"He's in surgery now. They're working on him."

"Surgery? Oh my god."

Alexis stumbles back in shock and Beckett instinctively reaches for her, steadying the young girl with reassuring hands on her shoulders.

"Where's your grandmother?"

Alexis pins her gaze on Beckett, as if trying to find focus and organize her thoughts.

"It's opening night, so her phone's off. Part of her ritual. But uh, the detective, um—"

"Ryan?" Beckett fills in.

Alexis nods. "He said he sent a patrol car. Someone's picking her up."

"Okay. Good. Why don't we sit over here while we wait?"

She directs the overwhelmed young girl toward the waiting room area, gently maneuvering her into a chair and taking a seat beside her.

Alexis looks at the Captain, tears pooling, her voice small and scared.

"How the hell did my dad get shot?"

Alexis is silent once Beckett finishes telling her.

About the case. About him jumping in front of her.

"He saved my life."

"Why would he do that?" Alexis asks reflexively before she quickly covers her mouth, shocked at the boldness of her own question. "I just meant—"

"It's okay. I know what you meant," Beckett says with a calming hand on the younger woman's thigh. She feels so useless. So helpless. "I just wish I did a better job at protecting him. I shouldn't have let him work the case at all. I should've known better. I'm so sorry."

Legal is going to kill her for technically admitting fault, but she doesn't give a damn. This was her fault. She's the reason this girl might suffer the same fate as her. The reason her heart might harden into stone and freeze into ice, traumatized by the loss of a parent in the spring of her youth.

But instead of lashing out in rage, instead of blaming the Captain for her father's potential demise, Alexis launches her arms around Beckett and clings to her like a lifeline.

"Please tell me he's going to be okay," she begs in a whisper and something melts in Beckett, her heart thawing and even if she doesn't have the answer, she can do this. Even if she has a hard time finding the bright side in anything, she can give his daughter a silver lining.

"He's in very capable hands. I've had officers shot in the line of duty and they pull through all the time. The best thing we can do right now is hope for the best possible outcome, okay?"

She hugs Alexis close, giving her a tight squeeze, and it heals an old wound in her, being able to provide this girl some of the comfort she was never given when she lost her mother.

The young woman eventually pulls away from her, wiping the tears from her face.

"I just…I can't lose him. Not when I just got him back."

Beckett stays quiet as Alexis continues to unspool.

"Last night, for the first time in years…he actually gave a damn about what was going on in my life. He showed interest. He cared. And it was like he was his old self again."

She stares at the Captain, a haunted look in her eye. An all too familiar look. Dread swamps her gut when Alexis opens her mouth and asks, "What if he doesn't make it?"

But Beckett's saved from reply when a loud voice cries,

"Where is he? Where's my son?"

Beckett walks back into the waiting room with a tray of coffees. Alexis is curled up across several chairs, her head resting in Martha's lap, eyes closed in sleep as her grandmother strokes her hair.

The actress is still in her Mame costume, a sequined outfit with a bright orange housecoat. She's long since unpinned her hair and brushed her wild curls into gentle waves and wiped the deep red lipstick from her mouth, but she still looks all too cheery for the somber circumstances.

And yet, something about the contradiction has a small smile tugging at Beckett's mouth. She barely knows the writer, but she has a hunch he would find it funny that even in his darkest hour, his own mother would manage to upstage him and steal the spotlight simply with her attire.

"Did you still want—" Beckett asks quietly, motioning at the coffee as she returns to her seat across from the pair.

"Oh, yes. Thank you, dear," the older woman replies, accepting a cup.

"It's pretty hot. Might want to blow on it," Beckett suggests.

The actress sets her cup on an empty chair to her left, retrieves a flask from the inside of her coat, and pours some of the contents into her coffee.

She motions with her flask. "Would you like some?"

"Oh, I'm alright. Thanks."

Martha regards her.

"Is this something you usually do?"

"Sorry?"

"You know, stick around this long? Don't you have other commitments?"

It's been hours. Four, five? Eight? She's lost count. When Martha arrived, she gave the actress a rundown of what happened and then checked in with her team to make sure Marcus Lark, their perp, was squared away in custody.

After that, she settled in and joined his family in their silent vigil, sometimes leaving to retrieve drinks and snacks and updates from the nurse's station. She took a fitful nap at one point, which was responsible for the crick in her neck.

"I'm sorry. I can go."

"No, no. Stay. I didn't mean to scare you off."

"I just figured it was the least I can do," Beckett says after a weighted beat. "He saved my life."

The enormity of what he's done for her cracks something in her and hot tears press her eyes.

"Hey," the actress soothes, "He's going to make it through. I know it in my heart. He has to."

Beckett desperately wants to have the same faith. Needs it so badly to be true.

"He shouldn't have been there, I—"

"Captain," the redhead says firmly. "My son does what he wants and from what I understand, you kicked him off the case, didn't you?"

Beckett nods half-heartedly.

"He's the one who couldn't let it go. And if there's anyone to blame, it's the person who shot him," Martha says, "You got the bastard, right?"

Beckett nods again, thinking of the two rounds she sent into his shooter's chest without pause; without hesitation.

Lark's lawyer didn't make it.

She killed a man.

And yeah, it was in self-defense. But she took a life. And she might be responsible for taking another. For not being fast enough.

"Good," says the actress curtly. "You did good, kiddo."

Good? How the hell can Martha be so nice to her when she's the one who put her son in harm's way?

The redhead sips from her cup, peering at her pensively, and then she's tilting her head to the side, a move Beckett herself has executed in more than one interrogation—the kind to invite your prey in before striking.

"Forgive me, but is there something going on between you and my son?"

"What?" Beckett says. "No, not at all," she stammers, her palms sweating and her cheeks reddening. Well, there was the abbreviated date that wasn't even really a date. And her silly, little fangirl crush she's harbored for over a decade. But that would be too complicated to explain. (Too embarrassing, really).

An almost amused smile ghosts over Martha's lips, as if she can read her thoughts, and she takes another sip of her drink, eyeing Beckett with curiosity.

"You're all he's been talking about recently. Well, you and some nonsense about alternate universes."

Beckett maintains a neutral expression, but her heart thumps erratically.

"This morning he mentioned something about you two being better off together. Even in this world. He thought…if he could prove to you how extraordinary you are, you could help him find some artifact and he could get back home. Do you know what that's about?" the redhead asks as if she's inquiring about the weather.

Extraordinary? But...

She supposes it's no stranger than his confession of love. Just another puzzle piece.

She latches onto Martha's mention of the artifact, thinking of the whispers of its magical properties and his insistence that he knew her; his claims that they were in a relationship. How he burrowed himself under her skin and re-awakened something in her. His words, playing on a loop inside her head.

The Kate Beckett in my world would never call this a win. The Kate Beckett where I come from? She would be unrelenting in the face of anything that is thrown in her path. She would find the truth and she would never compromise.

He'd spoken with such heart and conviction, and it had rattled her. It still rattles her. Could it be he really came from somewhere else?

"I—I don't know. How long has he been acting like this?"

"Couple days," Martha offers.

Beckett absorbs this. About the same time he crash-landed into her life. She thinks of his strange behavior. The inexplicable spark between them. The gut feeling that maybe there was a version of herself out there who opened herself to someone like him.

It fits.

But it can't.

It's ridiculous.

Was she really entertaining the possibility he came from an alternate universe? Another world? No…no. He said he based a character on her because of what he'd read about her. And that he'd fallen in love with her—the character. Not her. It made more sense that he just confused fiction for fact. Concocted some Twilight Zone fantasyland for himself.

It was the logical conclusion.

The only rational reasoning.

But it doesn't explain why, against all odds, she's starting to believe in the impossible.

"Captain?" Martha prods, wrenching her from the whirlwind in her brain.

"I'm sorry. I wish I knew more, but I've only known your son for two days. We've never met before. Except for a book signing years ago. That's about it."

"You're a fan?"

"I—"

She's interrupted by a doctor in a scrub cap.

"Family of Richard Castle?"

Chapter Text

They said it was a miracle.

One bullet almost nicked his heart, somehow managed not to hit any other vital organs, and they were able to dig it out with little issue.

The other bullet, however, punctured his left lung, and due to a complication, they had to perform an emergency lobectomy and remove a lobe from his lung. He also lost a lot of blood. But he was expected to recover if he made it through the night.

She almost collapsed in relief.

Martha actually did.

He was alive.

Just barely.

But he was alive.

"It's past visiting hours, ma'am," the nurse says. It's after one a.m. The writer's surgery had begun in the late afternoon and lasted about ten hours.

"Don't ma'am me! He needs us here," Martha protests loudly.

"He's going to be okay," the nurse placates.

The reality of the situation had finally crashed down on top of the actress and she was folding like a house of cards.

"We will call you. In the meantime, we have people checking on him every hour. And you should go home. Get some sleep. Okay?" the nurse soothes.

"He's in very capable hands," Alexis adds, glancing at Beckett as she echoes her words from earlier. "The best thing we can do right now is hope for the best possible outcome. That's what dad would want, right?"

Martha's bloodshot eyes dart around, harried and confused, and Beckett realizes she's seen this before. Seen it with her father too many times to count. All those hits from the flask must be hitting the older woman back, hard and fast.

Alexis's face cracks with worry when her grandmother babbles some nonsense in reply.

Beckett steps forward.

"Why don't I take you both home?"

She parks in a guest spot in the underground garage of their building, so she can help Alexis with Martha. The actress had fallen into a twilight stupor, oscillating in and out of consciousness; mumbling gibberish under her breath.

They carefully string her between their shoulders, support her at the waist with braced arms, and gently guide her into the elevator. The whole thing is far too reminiscent of the times she's had to drag her father home from the bar, his body, a dead weight against hers.

At least Alexis isn't alone.

The loft apartment is bathed in warm low-lights when they enter, and she gets a glimpse of the living area. Lots of elegant white furniture and refined beige accents coupled with gaudy pops of color. (Is that a crystal chandelier and a grand piano?) A little ostentatious for her taste, but that's neither here nor there.

"We can put her in my dad's room," Alexis suggests, veering right. "It'll be easier than the stairs."

Beckett nods and dutifully follows her lead, leaving her with little time to mentally prepare for setting foot in Richard Castle's bedroom. She has no idea what to expect, but she's surprised to find that it's actually quite…normal. Alexis flicks a bedside lamp on, and she's introduced to warm reds, sleek blacks, and muted silvers. Masculine but tasteful, she decides. Nothing over the top or in-your-face. And definitely not your typical bachelor pad.

The metallic checkered design above the headboard and large black-and-white prints of a lion and an elephant are the only touches of personality in a space that otherwise emits a quiet luxury.

"Do you think you could help me undress her, too?" Alexis asks quietly once they've set the actress on the bed.

"Of course."

After they help Martha into a silk pajama set and tuck her under the duvet, Alexis murmurs, "We have a guest room. You should stay."

"Oh, that's not necessary."

"It's late and you shouldn't drive tired," the young woman argues.

"I'll take a cab."

"Please, Captain," she pleads softly, a fragile look in her eye. "I know this might sound silly, but I just think…I think if we stick close together, he has a better chance of pulling through."

Well, fuck.

A hot lump of tears lodges in her throat.

"No, not silly at all," Beckett rasps. "I can stay."

The raven-haired girl surges into her, enveloping her in another hug. "Thank you," she whispers hoarsely.

Beckett runs a hand over Alexis' long locks, her heart warming and something like true hope sowing in her.

And then she's being loaned a pair of sweats and a T-shirt to sleep in and she's in the guest room shower, scalding hot water pounding down on her back, her head between her knees.

The chaos of the past 12 hours has left her numb and hollowed out.

Hell, the past 48 hours, really.

Richard Castle and his family have utterly destroyed her. Demolished her wall into a pile of rubble. And she doesn't know what she's going to do if he doesn't make it.

Oh, God, she really needs him to make it.

Please let him make it.

Alexis bursts into her room in the morning, a huge smile on her face.

"He pulled through."

He's moved into a private ICU room and allowed one visitor for 15 to 30 minutes at a time.

Alexis goes first. And Martha, second. He's still unconscious, so they don't stay long, but they insist she see him, too.

And it does help. To see proof that he's there. That he's alive.

But also terrifying. All those tubes and wires plugged into him. He looks so pale under the fluroscents. So defenseless and vulnerable.

Just as she's about to leave, his heart monitor starts to beep erratically. And then she watches his eyes fly open and his throat contract around the tube shoved down his trachea, gagging on it. Oh, fuck. He's choking.

She immediately presses the call button.

He senses her movement and darts his gaze toward her. She tries to assuage the panic dilating his pupils with, "It's okay. The tube is helping you breathe. You just got out of surgery."

His hand shoots out and grabs hers in a vise-like grip, confusion all over his face.

"You've been shot," she explains.

His brow cinches down, questioning.

"We were working a case together, remember?"

But that doesn't seem to help. He scans her in consternation. Like he doesn't recognize her. Like he has no idea what she's talking about. She knows he just got out of major surgery, that he's strung out on a high dose of pain meds and reconciling with the tube protruding from his mouth, but he's looking at her like she's a complete stranger. Like he's never seen her before.

Her heart sinks.

"Your family's here. Your mother and daughter are here," she says, slipping her hand from his grasp as a nurse rushes in.

The woman in scrubs administers some morphine and soon, his monitors stabilize and his eyes flutter shut. The nurse checks his numbers and writes them down on his chart.

"He's doing better, yeah?" Beckett asks tentatively.

The woman glances up. "He's got a long road ahead, but his vitals are trending upward."

Relief swirls through her. "He's really going to make it?"

The nurse nods with a sympathetic smile.

She throws the writer one last look, thinking of other worlds and what ifs.

Because if she knew one thing…it was that the man in the hospital bed wasn't the same one who had jumped in front of her. Not the man who saved her. Not the man in love with her.

No.

She knew it in her gut.

That man was gone.

She updates Martha and Alexis on her way out before getting interrupted by a work call.

Internal Affairs wants a debrief ASAP.

Fan-fucking-tastic. Just what she needs. A bureaucratic shake-down.

She leaves her personal number with his mother and daughter before she departs, saying if they need anything—anything at all—she's just a phone call away. They dust kisses over her cheekbones and hug her so fiercely she swears her ribs are about to crack, but she treasures their touches of warm affection, holding onto them just as tight, reveling in the new and strange bond they've forged. The strangest thing about it is that it doesn't actually feel strange at all.

She then heads straight to the precinct for her meeting, still in her wrinkled clothes from the day before. She's able to freshen up with some make-up from her purse, finger-comb her air-dried hair into a somewhat presentable bun, and thankfully, she has an extra blazer in her desk drawer, but she's nowhere near as put-together as usual.

She's down a layer of armor and already feeling stripped and raw from everything, so she's wholly unprepared when she walks into the conference room and sees her mentor and Chief of Detectives, Roy Montgomery, and his deputy chief, Victoria Gates, in attendance. They sit off to the side, but their presence is more nerve-wracking than comforting.

She does her best to recount the facts of the case and timeline of events in a clipped, clinical, professional tone.

When she finishes, there's a long beat of silence.

Finally, Gates comments, "Sounds to me if you hadn't been there, Mr. Castle might've not been so lucky."

"Sir?"

"You closed the case. Your suspect was in custody. But Mr. Castle decided there was a reason to dig deeper and he went rogue, after you already cautioned him about getting further involved. He's the one who put himself in the middle of a situation he wasn't trained for. If you hadn't shown up when you did, he likely would've been caught in the crossfire anyway and ultimately, left for dead. The way I see it—you saved his life."

"I agree," Montgomery says. He stands to his feet. "I think we can consider this matter adjudicated." He buttons his jacket up. "Gentleman?"

The I.A. agents gather their briefcases, snapping them shut, and promptly file out.

"Why don't you take a couple days off?" Montgomery suggests.

"But—"

"That's an order, Captain," he says sternly. Then, smiling. "And I'll see you on Sunday for your birthday dinner. Evelyn's making her special Sherry Bundt cake. Said you deserved the best for the big 3-5."

She and the team send a large basket of muffins to Castle's private room once he's transferred out of the ICU the next week. Flowers weren't permitted since they could carry hazardous bacteria and possibly trigger an infection in an immunocompromised patient like him.

The doctors had to take him into a follow-up surgery to repair some scar tissue and he was on around-the-clock care but improving every day. Martha calls her with updates, treating her like a pseudo-family member, and she's not sure why she's encouraging it. What was the point?

Maybe it's the guilt.

Even though she'd been cleared of any misconduct, she still can't help but feel responsible for the whole affair.

Or maybe because it keeps her sane, knowing he's going to be okay.

"He's breathing on his own."

"Oh, that's fantastic," Beckett exhales. "So the tube's out?"

"He's talking," Martha says, practically cheering.

"You don't know how great that is to hear," the captain says.

"Please say you'll come visit."

"Martha—"

"I know, I know. You're a busy woman. But it would mean the world to us. You've been so supportive through everything and Richard…well, he has a lot of questions."

"Questions?" Beckett asks lightly, her heart suddenly beating loudly in her ears.

"He doesn't remember those few days. The doctors are saying it's normal. Something about trauma-induced amnesia. We told him what we could on our end, but I thought that you might be able to tell him your side of the story. Give context for how he got shot. Tell him about the case."

Beckett sucks in a breath.

Her side of the story is about a man who doesn't exist anymore. But if he doesn't remember anything…then maybe she can construct a narrative that's close enough to the truth; stick to the facts of the case. Yeah, that seems doable.

"Okay."

"Katherine!" Martha exclaims with a smile, throwing her arms around the captain when she enters Castle's room the next day. "Thrilled you could squeeze us in, darling."

The writer zeroes in on her and her skin prickles with the intensity of his gaze. She disengages from Martha's warm embrace and clears her throat. "Course."

"You know what, I'm gonna leave the two of you alone," the actress comments, whirling out of the room before anyone can stop her.

Kate stands awkwardly, not sure how to proceed. He's sitting upright with blankets gathered around his hips, looking very thin but a far cry better than the last time she'd seen him. She could almost imagine he was there for a routine procedure.

Almost.

He's the one to break the stilted silence.

"You're breathtaking."

Her eyes widen in shock.

"Get it? Because they took a piece of my lung?" he says with a lopsided grin. She just stares at him, completely caught off guard. She doesn't know what she thought was going to happen, but it certainly wasn't this. Off her surprised expression, he backtracks, "Too soon?"

She exhales a small laugh. "Yeah, maybe."

He chuckles. "You don't have to look so nervous. I don't bite." He gestures. "Why don't you take a seat?" She quickly perches on a chair near the foot of his bed, and there's a short beat before he says, "My family speaks very highly of you. I think they like you better than me."

An involuntary grin springs to her lips and she bites down a laugh as she shakes her head. "Don't be ridiculous."

His ocean blue eyes sparkle with mirth.

"Do you know you have a gorgeous smile?"

She bites her lip again, blushing slightly. "I believe you wanted to talk about the case?"

He nods. "My family said I was talking about alternate universes?"

She schools her expression, trying not to react. She hadn't planned on getting into that part of the story. She didn't want to sound like a lunatic.

"My mother's theory is I was on drugs," he adds quickly.

"Don't think that's too far-off really. You did say something about ingesting too much caffeine and No-Doz pills," she says, grabbing onto the idea.

"Yeah?"

"Your behavior was erratic when we met."

"At your precinct?" he asks.

"The Twelfth," she nods.

He lights up. "I helped consult on a copycat murder about six years ago. With a Detective—"

"McNulty," she finishes.

"Too bad you weren't there," he says, "Might've followed up on the book idea I had."

Her cheeks flame and she ducks her head. "That was your excuse for crashing our case," she says, "You were doing research about a character you were basing on me. From articles that you'd read."

"Really?"

She nods. "But I said no thanks and put you in lock up for obstruction of justice. Twice."

"So we hit it off," he says, his face dimpling with a big grin.

She expels an involuntary huff of a laugh, hating his easy charm.

"Why'd you let me stick around?" he asks.

She shifts in her chair. "Because you had some useful information about the case." He raises an eyebrow, not quite convinced. "And you said you'd tell me why you killed off Derrick Storm," she admits.

He smirks. "So you are a fan."

"Of the genre," she shoots back. Maybe he was the same man who saved her life. He was just as infuriating. And trauma-induced amnesia was a real thing.

But she can't shake the way he'd looked at her with unadorned affection. The way he'd known things he shouldn't have known. And this man in the hospital bed…he wasn't the same man who could tell she missed the streets.

"What'd I say?" he asks.

"You never got around to telling me."

"Shot too soon, huh?"

Another involuntary huff-laugh escapes her.

"I got bored," he says after a moment, "Derrick lost his spark. Everything was predictable. There were no more surprises. And after my ride-along with McNulty, I thought there was potential in developing a detective character, but I couldn't figure out the hook."

His piercing eyes find hers and her breath hitches slightly.

"I wasn't able to break out of my writer's block for a while until I thought I'd try writing something with a little more substance. But the reviews weren't exactly favorable."

"Finite Laughter," she ventures.

"More like infinite crap," he says bitterly, "Please tell me you didn't read it."

"Didn't get past the first sentence," she confesses.

"Small mercies," he breathes in relief.

Her jacket buzzes and she reaches for her vibrating cell.

"Sorry—"

He waves it off. She turns away to accept the call.

"Beckett."

They need her in a budget meeting at 1PP. Ugh. Not another one.

"I'll be there in thirty," she sighs and turns to face the writer, an apology on her lips, but he fills in the blanks.

"Duty calls?" he guesses and she nods.

"Glad to see you're doing so well," she says, rising and heading towards the exit. "I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful."

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Captain. Thank you for the story. Maybe I'll see you around?" he asks.

She pauses by the door.

"Maybe," she says with a short smile, ignoring the quickening of her pulse at the suggestion.

Martha and Alexis stay in touch with her, updating her on the writer's recovery over the next couple of months. Alexis decides to extend her stay in New York while Martha cuts back on her Mame performances to support him through the grueling physical therapy.

They keep inviting her to dinner and various holiday celebrations but she politely declines each time, citing work, afraid of getting too close and too attached.

Better to push them away before they figure out she doesn't fit into the picture.

She becomes a godmother in early December, and Angela Katherine Parish becomes her main focus.

Along with trying to convince Javi to get his head out of his ass and tell the mother of his child how he really feels.

She knows Angela wasn't planned. That he and Lanie have always been more of a friends-with-benefits thing, but she thinks they can have a chance at something real if they just give it a shot.

It's in the New Year, right on the anniversary of her mother's death when the writer happens to show up in her office doorway.

She'd visited her mother's grave that morning, left her a bouquet of daisies (her favorite) and decided to go into work, needing to bury herself in nonsense paperwork and distract herself from the fact that it's been sixteen years since her mother bled out in an alley on a cold winter night and she might never find out why.

"Captain Beckett?" Castle asks, knocking softly on the jamb.

She sits up in her seat. "Mr. Castle." Surprise darts over her face as she takes him in, noting his clean-shaven jaw, freshly cut hair, and trim sport coat. He looks good. Like really, really good. Her stomach flutters. "How are you?"

"Better," he says, grinning. "Nothing like a near death experience to make you re-examine your life choices."

"Oh?" she says.

"I, uh, actually wanted to come and thank you."

She stares at him blankly. "Thank me?"

"However I got mixed up in that case, I'll never really understand, but I'm glad that I did. It gave me the wake-up call I needed. No more gambling at the race tracks. No more women half my age. Even convinced my daughter to move back home and my mother to redecorate our apartment."

"I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit," she argues.

He shrugs. "I was inspired."

"Inspired?"

"Getting shot and meeting you…it reminded me that I've always been good with mystery, and, well…" he shoves his hands into his pockets, glancing at her nervously. "I think you're my hook."

Damn it. This wasn't supposed to happen. He's supposed to stay away. She doesn't want—

"I'm flattered, Mr. Castle. Really. But I already said this when you first pitched it to me…I don't think I'm your girl. My job is boring. Just paperwork and politics. And I can't have a civilian in the field," she says, her eyes sweeping over his chest, where she imagines multiple surgical scars under his crisp, navy blouse. "You're well aware of the consequences."

"It doesn't have to be in the field. I just want to see how you operate."

She assesses his pleading, puppy-dog eyes, her heart thumping loudly.

"Your family know about this?"

"They said they're fine with it," he says nonchalantly.

"Why don't I believe you?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.

"C'mon, Captain. It's the least you can do for the guy who took some lead for you, right?"

Because I love you, Kate.

She was too broken for love. Her relationships never lasted.

There was a robbery detective from the third floor a couple years back. They were on-and-off again until he wanted more. Something she wasn't sure she could give. Then, the heart surgeon who proposed but he couldn't fix her heart, either. She liked him. A lot. But it wasn't enough to say yes.

Sometimes, her FBI agent-ex would come through town and hit her up for a booty call, but it'd been a while since she'd heard from him. Once in a while, she lets Lanie set her up on a blind date, which she, more often than not, cuts short with a fake emergency call. More recently, she'd been out with a prosecutor she met during a trial, but they weren't exclusive.

No one ever held her interest for long.

Work was more important. Maybe she was hiding in it. But it's what she knew and she was good at it.

Besides, she'd already dated a mystery writer once before and it hadn't ended well.

And Richard Castle scared her.

Before him, she didn't think about things like miracles or parallel worlds or signs from the universe. And now…here he was, her favorite author (and her mother's), showing up on the day of her mother's death, trying to insinuate himself into her precinct.

But it would be illogical to derive any meaning from it. She doesn't believe in fate or fairytales or any of that crap, anyway. True love was a myth.

And yet, nothing was logical when it came to him. Everything about him defied it.

Because I love you, Kate.

"I'll think about it," she says finally, throwing caution to the wind.

His eyes alight with hope. "Really?"

"I'll have to run it up the flagpole first. Clear it with the suits."

He slips a white business card out of his pocket and offers it to her.

"Call me when you get the greenlight?"

She takes it, noticing a cell phone number scrawled across it.

"Or call me anyway," he adds, grinning impishly. Her cheeks bloom with heat and he winks. "Have a good day, Captain."

He disappears before she can craft a reply.

What the hell did she just agree to?

Chapter Text

"Hey, what are you doing here? Isn't today…?"

She glances up to see Detective Ryan poking his head in, concern etched in his brow.

"Needed some noise," she explains. "Didn't want to be left alone with my thoughts."

He nods, understanding. "Do any of these thoughts happen to concern my new temporary partner for the week? Paperwork doesn't write itself."

She presses her lips into a grateful smile, relieved he's not pushing her further. "They're transferring someone in from the 54th. Should be here tomorrow."

"Glad to hear it," he says, "Actually, while I'm here, I was wondering if I could request some time-off."

Beckett leans back in her chair with a knowing smile.

"What's her name?"

"How—?"

"You've never taken vacation the entire time I've known you."

Ryan bristles slightly.

"Maybe I think Javi has the right idea."

"I wouldn't call paternity leave a vacation," she remarks with a small laugh. "Have you heard from him lately?"

"He claims that becoming a father is the best thing that's ever happened to him."

They share a meaningful look.

"He's losing his mind, isn't he?" she posits.

"Without a doubt."

She chuckles lightly. "Tell me about this girlfriend. How'd you meet her?"

"You know that case last fall, the one we worked with Castle?"

She stiffens imperceptibly. "What about it?"

"He, uh, mentioned her—we used to date way back, so I looked her up later. She's recently divorced, and I reached out and…" A shy smile lights up his face. "We're taking it slow."

"He knew about an old ex of yours?"

"Pet name and everything. Told me and Javi he had a gift. Pretty freaky."

"Uh huh."

She processes this new information, filing it away as further anecdotal evidence of Castle's alter ego.

She'd gone full tinfoil hat one night after drinking a little too much wine, trying to figure out how the artifact triggered the appearance of his alter ego in their world.

Message boards had led her to stories of ancient alien technology and naturally occurring quantum anomalies associated with the artifact. The Incans believed it was a gateway to the gods—a chance to change your destiny.

If that were true…what had he wanted to change? And what did it have to do with her? She'd reviewed the interrogation tapes from the case, but they only confirmed the troubling theory that he was in a relationship with her. (Her alter ego, that is).

Maybe his other self was searching for a way out, for a new destiny that didn't include her. But she discounts that theory. He took two bullets and professed his love for her—not exactly the words and actions of a man trying to run away from a destiny with her. Or a version of her, anyway.

She wonders about the case six years ago…the one he worked with Detective McNulty. Wonders what would've happened if she'd been the one to question him instead.

She'd spent years in nowhere relationships with men she didn't love. She was the only one looking out for herself, scratching and clawing for every inch of respect as a cop. Climbing out of a hole of grief to repair her father. Using every ounce of self-preservation to give up on her mother's case.

No one had taken the time to love her, scars and all.

But it doesn't matter. The last thing she needs is romantic entanglement. Especially from some nosy writer with a playboy history. This Castle doesn't care about her like that. This Castle? Jesus, she was losing her mind.

But he could care, a voice inside her whispers.

"What's that?" Ryan nods at the white business card in her hand.

"Nothing," she says too quickly.

The Irish detective hitches an eyebrow and plucks it from her grasp before she can stop him. He flips the card through his fingers and lets out a low whistle when he spots the embossed name on the other side.

"Can you—" She stands and snatches it back. "Not?"

"Thought I saw him leave here. What'd he want?"

"Another ride-along."

His eyes glimmer mirthfully. "Is that what the kids are calling it?"

She glares at him.

"You've always had a thing for the freaky ones," he teases with a big grin.

"Do you want those vacation days or not?" she threatens.

His grin drops and he starts to slowly back away.

"Ry, wait." He pauses. "Why didn't it work out between you two the first time? You and your ex?"

He shrugs. "Too married to my work."

"Right," she says, guilt lancing through her. She remembers when she first made captain and their caseload doubled. All she cared about was trying to prove she could do the job better than anyone else, time for anything personal be damned. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," he says with a sad smile. He points at the card. "I think you should call him."

She holds out until the end of the week, the voice inside her growing louder and rooting in her thoughts like a stubborn weed.

He could care.

She tells herself she's only going through with it because she could use a distraction from the monotony of her workday.

Not because she's curious. No. Not curious at all. No hint of intrigue. Her interest—totally un-piqued.

"Go for Castle."

"That's how you answer the phone?"

"Captain Beckett? I sensed I'd be hearing from you."

"You spoke with your mother," she concludes.

"I'm touched you wanted to clear things with my family first."

"I was checking out your story. You lied to me, Mr. Castle."

"I explained that I would be staying within the confines of the precinct, per your request. They're totally on board," he entreats.

"I need to be able to trust your word or this isn't going to work."

"But you do want it to work? I can shadow you?" he asks hopefully.

"I have rules. If you break any, you're out."

"I expect nothing less."

She rubs her temple, wondering if she should call the whole thing off.

He could care.

"What does your Monday look like?" she asks instead, her annoying inner voice winning out.

"I'm all yours," he says and her stupid heart skips a beat. "How do you take your coffee?"

"You do not chase down leads. You do not interfere. You're here only to observe within the four walls of this precinct," she says firmly, like a schoolteacher scolding a rowdy student. "Do you understand?"

Castle sits across from her in a sharp suit, his blue-collared shirt open at the throat, the smell of his sandalwood cologne washing over her and dizzying her.

"I know I may have stirred up some trouble my first time here, but I promise to be the perfect gentleman, Captain."

She regards him for a moment, noting his mischievous smile. Why was he really here?

"How long do you think it'll take…this research of yours?"

"As long as you'll have me."

"Uh huh," she says, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "One case."

"But it has to be a good one."

"A good one? Please tell me what a good murder looks like," she deadpans.

"Sorry, that was insensitive," he mollifies. "But c'mon, you have to admit there's something a little exciting about it—figuring out motives and digging up clues. You solve mysteries everyday. I just make them up, which is very fun, but not nearly as cool as the real thing."

She stares at him, utterly perplexed.

"I think you're the strangest person I've ever met."

He grins roguishly. "Makes you want me, right?"

She rolls her eyes.

"You need to sign these liability waivers," she deflects. "Just a precaution. Might want a lawyer to look them over and—"

But he's already leaning forward and scratching his signature across the page. He looks up at her with that infuriating smirk. "Are you kidding? He'd never let me sign these. And he's still kind of pissed that I don't even want to try and sue you guys."

He stretches back into his chair and retrieves a Moleskine notebook from the inside of his jacket, lifts a ballpoint pen from within its pages, and clicks the pen open—all in one fluid motion. She's momentarily mesmerized by it.

"So. Why'd you become a cop?" he asks, glancing at her expectantly.

She blinks. "What?"

"Youngest woman to make detective and then captain of her own precinct. Where would you say your drive comes from?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"I'm here to learn about you. Figure out what makes you tick and get inside your head. Find out how a woman like you ended up in a place like this."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Most smart, good-looking women become lawyers or politicians. Not homicide detectives," he says, his eyes traveling over her, his gaze scorching. "That means something happened to you. Or to someone you cared about. And you probably could've lived with that, but the person responsible was never caught."

She thought she'd vaulted up her grief, safely secured it away, but his words unlock something inside her and hot tears build behind her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I've upset you," he observes and she quickly cuts her gaze away, embarrassed that he's seen through her so easily. "Maybe I can come by another time," he says, rising to his feet.

"It was my mother," she says quietly and he returns to his seat, his face solemn.

She doesn't know why, but for some irrational reason, she trusts him. Maybe she feels like she owes it to him, this man who practically sacrificed himself for her, unknowingly or not, but the story spills out of her, flowing out of her mouth with an ease that unsettles her.

"They attributed it to gang violence. Random wayward event. And the killer was never caught."

"That's a lot to carry," he says, his voice soft and warm.

"My dad took it hard," she says, "He's been sober over ten years now." She shows him her watch and the engagement ring around her neck, explaining their meaning. "One for the life that I saved and one for the life that I lost."

"Do you ever think about re-opening her case?"

"All the time," she says, "But it took me years of therapy to decide I was better off leaving it alone."

Intense flames of empathy kindle in his endlessly blue eyes.

"I appreciate you telling me something so personal."

His sincerity is unnerving. Unexpected. Almost as if he actually cares.

See? her inner voice buzzes.

She squashes the bothersome thought and jokes, "Least I can do for the guy who took some lead for me, right?"

But he doesn't laugh or smile. The flames in his eyes just burn brighter and her heart pounds, the sudden tension in the air, blistering with heat.

"You saved me, too, you know?" he says. And it's too tender. Too earnest. "From what I hear, if you hadn't shown up, I probably would've been left for dead. And after I was shot, you got me to the hospital in time. So by my count, you saved me twice. Means I still owe you one."

She averts her gaze, the tension, too much. The flames, too hot.

"Right, um…" She clears her throat. "Can I give you a tour?"

He bows his head and gestures with his hand toward the door, as if he were a gentleman asking a lady onto the dance floor.

"Lead the way."

He's surprisingly helpful.

(Again).

When they catch a case later that day, they easily bounce ideas off each other, ping-ponging theories in an energetic back-and-forth. He's trying a little too hard to impress, but the thrill of verbally sparring with him awakens something in her…something about the process, positively electric, jolting her to her core and making her feel alive.

At one point, he makes a bet with her. Says if he can find the break in the case first, he gets to stick around until he finishes the book.

She crosses her arms. "This is a murder. Not playtime. Show a little respect."

He grins smugly. "You're scared I'll win, aren't you?"

"Please," she scoffs. "I have over a decade of experience. What do you have?"

He steps closer to her, invading her personal space.

"Twenty-two best-sellers."

She doesn't budge, and her eyebrow arches in challenge.

"And one abject failure."

He pouts and puts a hand to his chest in mock-offense.

"Ouch. That stings, Captain."

She smirks.

"Get used to it, Writer Boy."

His mouth quirks playfully. "So the bet is on?"

She leans her face in, inches from his. "Oh, you bet your britches the bet is on. And if I win, I never have to see you again."

He holds her gaze. "Not even for dinner?"

She pauses and her eyes involuntarily flick to his lips. Lips that are far too kissable. But no. She doesn't want to be just another notch on his bedpost or another line of ink in his little black book. She wants...

Because I love you, Kate.

"Not even for dinner," she decides. She'd written off romance long ago and she's survived just fine without it. He's no Prince Charming and she's certainly no damsel in distress.

"You hesitated."

She backs away from him. "No, I didn't."

"You totally did."

She narrows her eyes and shoves her hand between them. "Do we have a deal or not?"

He smirks, entirely too pleased, as he grips her hand in a firm shake. Her skin burns at his touch and she quickly severs the connection.

His eyes sparkle. "Oh, yeah. We have a deal."

He doubles-down when one of his theories starts to pan out.

"If I win, then not only do I get to stay on, but you have to come over and let me and my family cook for you."

"And if you lose?" she pushes.

"I won't publish the book."

"You're awfully sure of yourself."

"I have a good feeling about this one," he says, staring at her a moment too long.

She can't stand it.

"Your funeral."

She lets him think he cracked the case before she did.

(He's interesting).

"So, uh, I guess you won the bet," she prompts oh so casually.

"Uh, yeah." He tries to read her expression. "But look, if you don't want to—"

"No, no. You won. Fair and square," she presses. She can't remember the last time she had this much fun. Her life has been quiet and boring for so long. Too long. And he's…loud.

Something new.

A lopsided grin slowly spreads over his face, almost shy and bashful. Nothing like the megawatt, rakish one he usually flashes. Her heart races.

"See you tomorrow, Captain?"

She bites her lip, hiding a smile.

"See you tomorrow."

Chapter Text

He brings her coffee every morning.

He'd wrinkled his nose at the precinct stuff, a bitter and acidic drink that was affectionately known on the homicide floor as sewer sludge. Someone had once labeled the decaf pot Tar and the caffeinated one as Jet Fuel. She didn't mind it. Even at home, she swallowed down a simple black coffee all the time. It got the job done. Why the hell did it matter what it tasted like?

But the writer insists on introducing her (and her fellow officers) to "flavor country." She begrudgingly accepts the fancy restaurant-style cappuccino machine he buys for the break room. What she doesn't anticipate is the next week, where he spends hours and hours brewing and blending different fusions of lattes and espressos, even bringing special high-end ingredients from his personal cupboards, just to figure out what she likes best.

She surprises herself when she chooses one of the more lavish options as her favorite—a mocha caramel latte with two sprinkles of sea salt.

It's foamy, chocolaty, creamy richness with a little extra kick.

The perfect mix of sweet and salty.

Just like him.

(Jesus, her crush was getting out of control).

She tries to make a cup on her own, but she completely screws it up. He jumps at the opportunity to teach her and against her better judgment, she lets him put his arms around her under the guise of showing her how to properly use the milk frothing tool.

She hates the way her body sinks easily into the cove of his, how solid and warm he feels, how his hot breath washes over her neck and drives all coherent thought from her.

When his lips "accidentally" graze the shell of her ear, she startles so badly that she spills everything onto the front of her white blouse.

(Fan-fucking-tastic).

God, how was she supposed to get through a dinner with him and his family?

When he swings the door to the loft open on Sunday night, he's in a Darth Vader costume, helmet and all, wielding a flashing red lightsaber.

"Beckett! You're early," he says in a warped, modulated voice. She quirks an eyebrow. Of course he went for full authenticity.

"You said six, right?"

She'd arrived right on the dot.

Alexis materializes over her father's shoulder in a white floor-length and long-sleeved dress, her dark hair hastily twisted into makeshift Princess Leia buns, a blinking blue lightsaber in hand.

"We must've lost track of time," she says apologetically. "I was telling Dad about going to Supernova Con with some new friends next week and he wanted to see if our old outfits still fit. One thing led to another…"

Castle exhales the heavy trademark breath of his character, pivots toward his daughter, and dramatically states, "I am your father."

She and Alexis roll their eyes in unison.

"Hey! I saw that!" he whines robotically.

She and the young woman grin at each other.

"Let the poor girl in!" Martha hollers from somewhere in the kitchen.

Big Castle and Little Castle promptly step aside and she enters, clutching the bottle of wine she brought with her.

Her eyes flick around the newly renovated space.

It's no longer the inside of Marie Antoinette's palace. The chandelier is gone, and she's able to notice the impressive skylight and gorgeous wooden beams across the ceiling. The vintage-style furniture has been replaced with a more modern black couch and sleek but comfy-looking gray chairs.

And metallic art pieces like a model of the Manhattan Bridge and a silver dog statue decorate side and end tables, while the frilly, accent wallpaper over the bookshelves has been stripped and the surface painted over in a warm, welcoming red. A lot like his bedroom. Sophisticated yet accessible.

When she peeks into the study, she sees that the large, life-size portrait of Martha has been switched out for a stately photo of a winding, spiral staircase. She likes the effect of it.

"Wow, it looks great in here," she says sincerely.

Castle wriggles his headgear off and grins, big and wide, his hair sticking up in the back. (It's not adorable whatsoever).

"See, Mother? She thinks it looks great."

"Oh, pish-posh," the redhead tuts, tearing some basil leaves from a stalk and throwing them into a blender.

"She really wanted to keep the chandelier," he murmurs. "But I played the I-almost-died card and she had no choice but to fold."

Beckett laughs. "That's just evil."

"Guess that's why I'm on the Dark Side, huh?" he chuckles. "Care to join?" he asks, offering her a gloved hand.

She pushes the wine bottle into it. "I like to use The Force for good."

His eyes glint impishly and he's about to respond when his mother calls out, "Richard, how do I work this? Do I simply turn the thingy?"

They both glance over and Castle shouts just as she spins a dial on the blender, "No, wait—the lid!"

But it's too late.

The would-be pesto sauce whirls out, splattering the actress in green paste all over. She shrieks like a banshee and Alexis quickly leaps into action, yanking at the power cord and unplugging the blender before it can do more damage.

They all stare wide-eyed at the matriarch, hands over mouths, holding in laughter, as she wipes some of the puree from her face. There's a long beat of silence before she finally lets out a dry chuckle and says,

"Do you think basil exfoliates?"

"I had a really good time."

It's an understatement. Dinner had been wonderful. She'd been worried about feeling like she didn't belong, like she was intruding. But it was as if she'd always been a part of the puzzle, a missing piece slotting into place. It was kind of magical, really. It reminded her of family dinners growing up, the way everyone teased each other and shared funny stories, trying to compete for the biggest laugh.

The homemade Alfredo pasta was perfectly savory and the bruschetta appetizer, deliciously crispy and fresh. The expensive red wine, a perfect pairing for the cannolis they'd picked up from their favorite hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant down the street.

"Us, too," he says, helping her into her coat. "Maybe we can do this again. Make it a weekly thing."

She pulls her hair out from underneath the collar.

"Why? So your mother can give me more ammunition against you? I can't believe you used to do ballet as a kid."

He reaches past her to open the door.

"I was the most sought-after dancer!" he exclaims. "I never dropped a girl."

She shakes her head with a smile and exits into the hallway.

"Look, Captain—" he starts.

She turns.

"Kate."

"Kate," he echoes with a small grin. The affection in his tone has her veins fizzing with warmth. "Look, uh…when I killed off Derrick, I thought I was giving myself a fresh start. Something new. But instead, I lost myself. My savings. My daughter." He pauses. "I traveled down the wrong path and sought validation from the wrong people." His brow knits. "And for the past five years, I had no idea how to change course…until I woke up with some bullet wounds."

He finds her gaze with deep, fathomless eyes, and she stands, transfixed by his words, her heart thumping loudly and blood rushing in her ears.

"You brought my family back to me. And well, the news of my shooting actually led to a spike in sales of my old works, so technically, you also helped bring some money back into my bank account."

"You're kidding."

He shrugs. "Guess I'm worth more practically dead than alive."

She pushes a hand into his shoulder. "Don't say that."

He grins sheepishly. "Point is, I never thought I'd write again. Not anything good or worthy. Nothing I believed in. And now I can't seem to stop." He leans against the door jamb. "So for purely selfish reasons, I'd like to have you around as much as possible. Because you're kind of my good luck charm. And maybe we can be friends."

"Friends, huh?"

"If that's okay with you," he rushes out nervously, "I don't want to force you into anything you're not comfortable with. And I don't expect anything else." He stuffs his hands into his pockets. "It's just…you had my family's back when I was in a tough spot. So I'd like to have yours. I figured it's the least I can do."

She has lunches with her dad. Dinners at the Montgomerys. Drinks with her team; Lanie. She has people. A life. She doesn't need more.

But she thinks of the cold, empty apartment waiting for her, thinking maybe it's not enough anymore. Maybe she wants more. More of this down-to-earth and goofy guy who plays dress up with his kid for fun and says sweet things with a sincerity that steals all the breath from her lungs.

No one's ever called her a good luck charm before.

Oh, why the hell not?

"Yeah, okay. I can do friends."

"Yeah?"

She shyly ducks her head and twirls a piece of hair around her finger. "Yeah."

"Should we shake on it?"

He proffers his palm, but she doesn't take it, instead rising on her toes and brushing her lips to his cheek.

It's impulsive and rash and unlike her.

But something about him inspires a little recklessness in her, reminding her of a rebel girl who once rode a motorcycle and actually dared to live a little.

And the slack-jawed look of awe on his face is totally worth it.

She walks away without glancing back, smiling to herself, feeling the burn of his stare.

"What kind of name is Gemma Frost?"

"The badass kind. I was also thinking of Nikki Heat."

"That's a stripper name."

"Well, I told you she was kinda slutty," he says. Off her scowl, he adds, "But also really clever and cool in a crisis. That's why I'm gravitating toward Frost. Heat suggests a more hot-headed persona. And you Captain, are anything but. Did you know they call you the Ice Queen?"

"I don't like either of them. Pick another one," she demands.

"What do I get if I do?"

"How about I won't be pissed at you?"

"You're always pissed at me."

"Okay, fine. We can visit a crime scene."

"Deal," he says eagerly, stretching out his hand.

She stares at it, suspicious. "You're not going to change it, are you?"

"They're already workshopping cover art with it. But I'll do anything else to accompany you to a body drop. Please. Please. Please." He puts both hands under his chin in a prayer-like pose. "You know you miss it."

You miss the streets.

"Forget it."

She's not going to put him in harm's way.

He shows up a couple days later in a Kevlar vest with WRITER emblazoned on it, saying he'll wear it every day if that's what it took.

"And statistically, you're the one more likely to get shot. It already happened to me," he recites, "So, if anything, I should be the one worried about you getting hurt."

"You want to put me in danger?"

"What? No. That's not what I meant. Stop ruining my argument with your logic!"

"How about neither of us put ourselves at risk, 'kay?" she says tersely, closing the subject.

But he keeps wearing it, true to his word, and eventually, he wears her down.

"Just one crime scene," he pleads. "I'll never ask again. Just one."

God, he was annoying.

She makes sure to clear it with Martha and Alexis first. She promises to have his back, promises she'll do everything in her power to bring him back home safe.

They said they trusted her. (When did that happen?)

And then, she's back on the streets again, the thrill of chasing down clues coursing through her.

One crime scene turns into two.

Then three.

She stops counting after five.

It's unusual but not entirely uncommon for a captain to stretch their legs and knock on doors. All her bosses care about is if she turns in her CompStat reports on time.

She acts more as a consultant really, checking in more often with all of her teams and dropping in on more than one interrogation.

Castle crafts stories, formulates motives, and helps her and her detectives string evidence together in cohesive narratives. His breadth of knowledge is impressive and she admires his intellect. (Not that she'll ever let him know that).

It's almost disconcerting how well they work together. They have whole conversations without talking. All she needs is to throw him a look or lift her brow in a certain way and he knows exactly what she's thinking. She's also able to read his expressions, whether it's a wiggle of an eyebrow or a twitch of his mouth.

Ryan and Esposito swear their minds are melded together. Her other two teams of detectives—The Veterans (Karpowski and Velasquez) and The Newbies (Hastings and Stegner)—say it's like watching a screwball comedy from the 40s or a tennis match, their banter flying to-and-fro with incredible speed.

Their precinct's clearance rate actually improves.

She keeps telling herself that she keeps him around because he makes her job a little more fun.

That it has nothing to do with how her skin flushes when he's near, or the warm look in his eyes when he coaxes a laugh out of her.

She's not falling for him.

She's not.

They're just friends.

That's it.

One night, Alexis is extolling the virtues of her poli-sci professor.

"He's so, so dreamy," the young woman sighs. "You would like him, Kate. I could probably get his number for you, if you're interested."

"Oh, no thank you," she chuckles. "Every time Lanie tries to set me up, it's kind of a disaster. And it's hard to find someone who understands the hardships of my job. I prefer bubble baths and a good book."

"You know, my son is single," Martha jokes.

Castle scoffs a derisive laugh.

"What was that for?" his mother asks.

"Kate has a rule against dating mystery writers. But she won't tell me why."

Alexis and Martha look at her, curious and expectant.

Damn, it.

They'd make excellent interrogators.

She sets her fork down and blots her mouth with a napkin.

"Have you ever heard of Alex Conrad?"

They shake their heads, but Castle straightens in his seat.

"Hold on, I remember this guy. We have the same publisher. They used to call him—

"The next Richard Castle," she fills in.

"Yeah, how—"

"It's all he could talk about. Like three or four years ago? I think you were supposed to provide a blurb for the cover of his new book, but you wrote some scathing review instead. Said it was way too obvious that the girlfriend was the killer."

The writer grimaces. "Oo, yeah. I was deep in my misery back then. And very jealous of all the attention he was getting, so I got a little petty. Definitely not my proudest moment."

"Why'd it end?" Alexis nudges.

"Well, on one of our dates, he took me to this well-renowned psychic and she said some nonsense about an Alexander saving my life. And that he'd be extremely important to me. I don't put much stock in that kind of stuff, but Alex took it pretty seriously. He got really protective and controlling. Didn't want me to go to my job or even walk outside because he didn't think it was safe and it was his duty to protect me. So it sort of became an untenable situation."

"I'm sorry. That's awful," Martha endears.

Beckett shrugs it off. "It was never serious, but yeah, it made me wary of egomaniacal mystery writers."

The women chuckle and Castle pouts.

"You know, Dad's middle name is Alexander," Alexis pipes in. "His old one before he changed it to Edgar, anyway. That's why he named me Alexis. As an homage."

Beckett's cheeks heat with embarrassment.

Oh.

Sensing her discomfort, Castle blurts out, "I went to a psychic once. She told me that a beautiful woman would one day move into my loft and stay with me forever."

They all stare at him and her heart hammers.

"She neglected to mention it was my mother."

February has record low temperatures. One of their coldest winters yet.

She's supposed to go over to the loft later for dinner, but her nose was runny, her throat was scratchy, and her forehead was clammy with fever.

She texts him that she can't make it. That she doesn't want to risk getting anyone else sick.

He's been in book meetings all day.

Hours later, she's cuddled up on her couch in her favorite comfy PJs watching Temptation Lane when she receives his message.

Need someone to warm you up, Captain?

I'm highly contagious, she writes back.

Her doorbell rings and she reluctantly untangles herself, her slightly inflamed joints aching. Ugh. Who the hell is it?

A delivery man is on the other side.

"Ms. Beckett?"

She nods and he wordlessly hands her a large thermos and a tote bag. When she looks inside, there's an assortment of cold and flu medicines, a saline spray for nasal irrigation, and Vitamin C tablets.

"I didn't…"

But he's already disappeared down the hall. Her phone buzzes and the writer's book jacket photo flares on her screen.

She smiles and swipes to answer.

"Thank you."

"That chicken soup is home-made, by the way. My mother was not involved, so it's definitely safe."

She lets out a light laugh and hears the familiar screech, screech, screech of a violin in the background.

"Are you watching Psycho?"

"There's a Hitchcock marathon on Channel 7."

She migrates into the kitchen, setting down her spoils and gathering a spoon and bowl.

"Are you by yourself?"

"When you said you weren't coming, Alexis went to a poetry slam with her school friends and my mother swanned off, found some actor party."

"You don't have some hot date lined up?"

"She canceled on me. Said she had a cold."

Her heart trips in her chest.

"Very funny, Castle."

"Rear Window's on next. What do you say?"

She sips from her soup, tucked into a cozy blanket with a pair of wired earbuds connected to her phone and her TV tuned to Channel 7. He does most of the talking, and she enjoys his running commentary and the sound of his voice, so rich and smooth and honeyed. Like a warm hug.

She's not sure if it's the medicine or the soup or his company or a combination of all three, but she feels a lot better. Still a bit stuffy and her throat, a little sore (it hurts to laugh), but much, much better. She can't remember the last time someone went out of their way to take care of her like this.

Her doctor ex, Josh, always quarantined himself or took longer shifts at the hospital to stay away. Said he couldn't risk catching anything.

She knows Castle would be here if she let him, contagious or not.

But she's terrified. She doesn't know if she's ready for someone like him. Someone who could be everything.

"I had a dream of you wearing that Grace Kelly dress once."

"Yeah, in Never-Gonna-Happen-Land."

"It felt very real. I don't think it's outside the realm of possibility."

"Maybe in another universe or parallel world," she jokes before thinking it through. (Damn fever brain).

He pauses briefly and she wonders if he knows, knows that she hasn't told him everything about their first case together.

Because I love you, Kate.

"What?" she prompts in the growing silence.

"Nothing. I just never pegged you for a sci-fi fan."

"Oh, so many layers to the Beckett Onion. However will you peel them all?"

(Yeah, he does not need to know about her Nebula-9 cosplay days).

He chuckles and they return to the movie and eventually, she falls asleep to the soft lullaby of his chatter.

She updates her wardrobe full of black paint suits and charcoal jackets with splashes of color and she starts wearing her hair down and out of its signature ponytail more often.

The first day she wears loose curls with a powder blue pencil dress and a matching blazer, her team barely recognize her, but she gets a kick out of Castle's reaction the most, his face filled with wide-eyed wonder.

"Going somewhere later?" he asks.

"What's it to you?" she asks, coy.

"Uh, nothing. Just curious. For research purposes."

"Oh, sure," she says with a knowing grin.

"You look nice is all. Gorgeous, really. Not your usual doom and gloom."

"Doom and gloom?" she asks with a slight frown, her heart somersaulting at Gorgeous, really.

"I'm sorry. I meant sunshine and rainbows."

"Maybe I have a date," she tosses out.

"Do you?" he asks evenly.

"None of your business."

"You know I'm going to find out eventually," he says, "Might as well give it up now."

"Except I'm the one with the gun."

"I could have one if you let me. I'm certified!"

"I'm not going to be responsible for you getting shot," she says, her heart clenching. "Not again."

The humor vanishes from his eyes.

"That wasn't your fault."

"Castle," she warns. Why were they talking about this?

He grows uncharacteristically silent.

"I'll tell you what I'm up to. I actually do have a date tonight," he says after a moment.

Disappointment shoots through her, but she feigns indifference. "Oh?"

"With my daughter. She's contemplating a career change and wants my advice."

She covers her exhale of relief with a loaded barb.

"It's sweet she thinks you have anything useful to say, Mr. Everything-Is-A-Conspiracy."

"Law of averages demands I'll be right one of these days."

She shakes her head with a pressed-lipped but upturned smile.

"What kind of change is she contemplating?"

"She's been practically running this non-profit," he preens. "But she's worried it's not enough. Says the work is missing a personal connection with the people it impacts. She's actually wondering if she could talk to you as well."

"Me?"

The young woman calls her regularly for advice, but it still surprises her, still sucker-punches her in the gut that this family, this loud and noisy and amazing family, has accepted with such open arms. She was used to being a black hole, sucking everyone down into the darkness with her. But they've somehow managed to pull her into the light and turn her gray world, technicolor.

"She looks up to you. Respects what you do," he says.

"Budget meetings and paperwork?"

"You command a whole precinct. You make sure justice is delivered," he says, "And you're very good at bossing people around."

"I just make sure everyone's doing their jobs."

"You do more than that," he argues.

"Yeah, I also have to babysit you," she huffs.

But he doesn't rise to the bait, an all too serious look on his face.

"That's not all you do, Kate," he says sincerely, "I see how the families of the victims come in here, how you talk them through their pain. You share your grief and open your heart to them. You bring them comfort and reassurance. A sense of peace. Not everyone can do that. What you do is important."

It stuns her, how he sees her. How he brings her comfort and reassurance and a sense of peace when she least expects it.

"I'd love to talk to Alexis," she says quietly. But she can't handle this softness from him. It's too overwhelming. "God knows what nonsense you'd fill her head with," she jokes to break the tension.

"Must you always cut me down to size, Captain?" he jibes.

"Someone has to keep your ego in check."

She sits at her desk one Friday morning, staring at glossy cardstock, the fancy cursive letters on it, mocking her.

"What's that?" Castle asks, entering her office.

"Nothing," she says quickly.

"Liar," he says, handing off her coffee.

She takes it with a smile and then sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"An ex of mine is getting married."

"Would that be the FBI agent, robbery detective, heart surgeon, or prosecutor?" he asks, sitting in his designated chair by her desk.

"The boys really need to keep their mouths shut."

"You certainly have a type, don't you? Clean-cut rule-followers. Tell me something, you ever have any fun? You know, drop your top, a little Cops Gone Wild?" he asks with a twinkle in his eye.

"Do you see me prying into your life and asking invasive questions?" she launches back at him.

"I'm an open book, Captain. Interrogate away."

She crosses her arms, trying not to fall into his trap. But she wants to wipe that damn smirk off his face.

"Okay. Why'd your marriages end?"

"You had that one locked and loaded," he says with a self-satisfying grin.

"Are you going to answer the question or not?"

God, he was impossible.

He's quiet for a beat.

"My first wife was Alexis's mother. When she got pregnant, I thought it was the right thing to do. To propose. But that's not enough of a reason to marry someone. Probably why I found her in bed with someone else."

Oh, shit.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know," she says, soft and sympathetic. She'd always assumed he was the one to stray. She feels like an ass.

"Bygones," he assures her. "And with Gina, my editor—it made sense on paper, but we didn't have any fun. It was all work and I was too protective over my relationship with Alexis…I didn't let her in."

"Why not?" she asks.

"It wasn't...magic." He fixes her with a pointed stare and her heart thuds painfully against her ribs.

She clears her throat and straightens a stack of forms on her desk.

"No one serious since then? Just a string of naive and impressionable models?"

"I wouldn't trust what you read in the papers."

"So you weren't a frequent guest of New York fashion week?" she asks with an arched eyebrow.

He pivots. "What else is one of New York Ledger's Top 30 Bachelors to do?"

"You were number 29," she scoffs.

"Why do you care who I date?" he asks.

"I don't," she says, bristling. "By all means, keep up your philandering. The more, the merrier. I can't wait to see who falls for your irresistible charm next. I'll be sure to catch it in an upcoming issue of Page Six."

"Believe it or not, some women in this town don't mind the idea of being romantically linked to me."

"How many of those women are under the age of thirty?" she fires back. And it's a little unfair. She knows he hasn't seen anyone since the shooting. Knows he's done chasing vacuous twentysomethings.

He sighs, giving up. "So you gonna go?"

"What?"

He gestures at the invitation.

"The wedding?"

"Oh," she says. "I RSVP'd yes, but I was, um…under the influence when I replied," she confesses.

"You marked the plus one box, didn't you? And you don't have a date, do you?" he asks, almost breathless with glee.

Her head falls onto her desk with a thunk and a groan.

"If you want to make him jealous, then all you have to do is ask," he sing-songs.

"I don't want to—"

"Please," he interrupts. "Why else would you go to an ex's wedding with a plus one? And who better than a ruggedly handsome best-selling author?"

She snaps her head up. "Absolutely not."

"C'mon, Beckett," he cajoles. "Afraid you'll have a good time?"

"I—"

He snatches the invitation from her.

"March 8, 2015 at The Waldorf-Astoria," he reads aloud. "Tomorrow?" he asks with a laugh. "You basically have no other choice."

"So you admit I could do better?" she retorts, not wanting to give in so easily.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm the worst," he says, not engaging. Instead, he gets on his knees and puts his hands together. "Please let me take you. I'm amazing at weddings. Please, please, please."

She huffs a laugh. "Jeez, Castle, you don't have to beg. You can be my plus one if it means that much to you."

"Wait, really? That worked?" He leaps to his feet, joyous. "It's a date," he says, grinning crookedly. Butterflies swarm in her stomach.

Oh, God.

This was a mistake, wasn't it?

Chapter Text

"You're not getting any younger."

Lanie walks out of Beckett's closet, a pair of strappy heels hooked around her fingers.

"So I need to 'climb him like a tree' because my biological clock is ticking?" Beckett huffs.

"I'm just saying you deserve to get laid," her best friend says. The medical examiner was helping her get ready, thrilled to have an excuse to escape her colicky four month-old for a couple hours. "If you don't jump his bones, someone else will. Hell, I'll volunteer."

"I don't think Javi would appreciate that," Beckett laughs.

Esposito had finally confessed his feelings, but Lanie wasn't sure if she could trust him yet, hesitant to believe he was truly committed. He'd been stepping up lately, really showing up in ways that mattered, and they were taking it day-by-day. Angela came first and foremost.

"Until I see a ring, I'm a free woman," the medical examiner proclaims with a chuckle. "But seriously, how long do you think Writer Boy is gonna follow you around like some lovesick puppy?"

"It's not like that," Beckett protests, sweeping her caramel curls over one shoulder and pinning them in place. "We're friends. And this is just one friend helping out another."

Lanie scoffs. "Girl, I'm gonna smack you! You work side-by-side every day. You're over at his place all the time. And he writes a sex scene in his book about you that had me reaching for ice water. I mean, if you don't feel the same way, at least put him out of his misery. And me, for that matter. I've lost a lot of money on you two."

"Sorry, what? Sex scene?"

"He sent us advance copies. You didn't get yours?"

Kate thinks of her kitchen counter and the pile of unopened mail, recalling a medium lump-sized package protruding from the bottom of the stack.

"Hold on."

She rushes out of the room, her robe trailing out behind her. She knocks the mail away and unearths the package addressed to her from his publishing company, White Knight. She tears the brown paper away to reveal a book. If you could call it that. It was more like a report—bound by a black spiral spine and there was no real cover. Just a title page, watermarked with her last name.

"Frostbite?" she reads aloud.

"It's a good read," Lanie says, entering the living room. "Real gift with the details of death."

"You liked it?"

"Oh, yeah. I especially liked the relationship between Gemma Frost and Nicholas Bishop, the intrepid journalist who tags along on her cases."

"You're kidding," she deadpans. "He inserted himself into the story?"

"He certainly inserted something," Lanie says with a sly smile. "I think the page you're looking for is one-oh-seven."

Beckett makes a face at her friend before quickly flipping to the offending number, her eyes rapidly scanning the text, where she reads about Gemma and Nick getting stuck in a snowstorm while chasing down a lead upstate, how they shelter in an abandoned cabin they come across, and how the only things they have to keep warm is a half a bottle of vodka and a few wool blankets.

Until Gemma proposes another way of generating some heat.

"Oh my god. Oh my god."

"Steamy, right?"

"How can you say that? This is—I don't even know what to call it."

"Verbal masturbation?"

Beckett can only stare, speechless.

"He's got it real bad," Lanie says.

"Your hormones are all out of whack," Beckett retorts, in denial. "All you can think about is sex."

Lanie rolls her eyes. "Don't think I don't see through your little act. You're just as crazy for him. Getting all moony-eyed every time he walks into a room."

"I do not get—"

"Please," Lanie chides, "Put these panties on," she orders, tossing a lacy pair at the captain.

"You'll thank me later."

"This isn't prom, Castle," she says when he pulls up in front of her building in a town car and a corsage in hand. He'd insisted on picking her up.

"But since you didn't go to yours, I thought you might like it anyway," he says, slipping the white daisy bracelet over her wrist before she can protest further. He steps back to admire his handiwork, dragging his heated gaze over her.

She's in a dress of muted gold that hugs her curves and wraps over one shoulder and drapes to the floor. Sexy but elegant. And a little flashy for a wedding. Especially an ex's wedding. It had been an impulse purchase, fueled by a moment of pettiness. Because maybe she was a bit miffed that the guy who claimed he could never settle down had found someone he was willing to settle for.

Maybe Will hadn't been the problem. Maybe it had been her.

He'd been the first guy she opened up to about her mother. He'd understood. But then he put the job ahead of her. Chose a promotion in another city without consulting her. Twice.

So she kept it casual anytime he breezed through town and called her up. It was easy to invite him into her bed because she'd cast him out of her heart.

But in the back of her mind, she wondered if maybe he was the one who got away. Maybe she'd been too cold and closed-off. Maybe she'd been the one to stop them from a real chance of ever being more because she was too afraid to figure things out and really make it work.

"Oh, he's going to regret ever leaving you," Castle says approvingly. Her pulse races.

"For the last time, I'm not going to make him jealous," she huffs.

"Keep telling yourself that," he says.

"You clean up nice," she says begrudgingly, taking in his slicked back hair and custom-fit tuxedo. He cut a very gallant figure and he knew it.

"Let me take a picture of you two," Lanie says, "Get together, please," she orders.

"Lane!" Beckett whines like a belligerent teenager.

"For me?" Lanie pouts.

Castle comes up behind her and brackets her waist with his hands. His touch sears through her dress and it takes everything in her not to react, to ignore the bloom of arousal in her belly and dismiss the sudden fire crawling over her skin.

"Least we can do," he murmurs into her ear, using the phrase that's grown to mean so much more in their time together. They traded it back and forth in quiet moments, a placeholder for what they couldn't say out loud. Thank you for being my partner. Thank you for always being there. She has to work very hard to suppress the shiver that runs down her spine at the tickle of his warm breath, but his words draw a reluctant grin from her.

"Oh, that's perfect. Stay like that!" Lanie says, snapping away. But she can't bear it any longer, her body too aware of him, the broad swath of his chest almost pressing into her shoulder blades, his biceps just skirting hers. It's not enough. She aches for more than the whisper of his fingertips on her hips.

Oh, God.

When did it get like this? When did it get this bad?

"We're gonna be late," Beckett says curtly, wrenching the car door open and sliding inside to escape before she does something stupid. Castle climbs in after her, but keeps his distance, sensing she's on edge.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Lanie shouts as they peel away from the curb.

In the car, Castle hands her a cheap plastic box with another daisy, its stem shortened. A boutonniere, she realizes.

Daisies were her mom's favorite because it was the kind of flower that kids drew with their crayons. The kind of flower you picked petals from to decide if someone loves you or not. Something that was simple, earnest, and full of sweet innocence. Something straight from the heart.

She'd told him that. Explained they'd become her favorite, too.

His were sunflowers. Because they always turn to face the sun, following its light as it travels across the sky.

"You're really into this prom bit," she notes.

"Prom redemption," he corrects, "I couldn't go to mine because some other seniors and I put cows on the roof of the school as a prank."

"Of course you did."

"Which sucked because my date was unbelievably hot."

"You didn't try sneaking in?"

"Kind of difficult when you're expelled and banished from the premises."

"All of you were expelled?" she asks.

"The other guys got a slap on the wrist after their parents pulled out their checkbooks. I was the scholarship kid, so I got the boot."

He says it offhandedly, but his good-natured smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, as if the memory still stings, and she softens.

She unboxes the boutonniere, the plastic warbling loudly.

"I'm only doing this out of pity," she says, leaning in to pin the flower to his lapel. His sandalwood cologne fills her nose and she hates how good it smells.

"At least my date is still unbelievably hot."

She pricks him with the needle head of the boutonniere stem.

"Ow!" he yelps.

She flashes him a contrite but admonishing glare.

"Don't expect my vote for Prom King."

She didn't think this through.

This is their first time together, alone, without the pretext of a crime to solve.

And she'd changed her underwear.

To make matters worse, Castle is the perfect gentleman, assisting little old ladies to their seats and enthralling everyone with his charming stories to save her the trouble of answering how she's connected to the groom.

What little resolve she's built to deny the all-consuming tension between them is quickly dissolving, especially when his hand keeps slipping to the small of her back, the firm press of his palm, setting her ablaze.

She barely pays attention to the ceremony as Castle whispers in her ear, his hand on her knee, telling her all the juicy gossip he's uncovered (Uncle Lenny and Aunt Marge were in the middle of a divorce and Lenny had the gall to bring the nanny as his date).

By the time the writer is asking her to join him on the dance floor, Will is the last thing on her mind. She lets Castle's arms come around her without protest, secretly glad for the excuse to have him this close. He feels so strong and solid and—

His lips quirk into a smile, as if he can read her thoughts.

"You're freaking me out," she says aloud.

"I'm on my best behavior," he says, indignant.

"That's what's so concerning. I didn't think you could actually be a grown up for once."

"I know a lot of grown up things. I can show you how to do one of them later," he says, his voice low.

"There you are," she quips.

But it falls flat, her words coming out breathier than intended. If Castle notices, he doesn't comment, his attention caught by Will and his flight attendant bride passing by.

"I can't believe you dated that guy. He's like CSPAN boring."

She puffs a laugh. "You didn't even meet him."

"His vows were a snoozefest and well, he can't be all that smart."

"What makes you say that?"

"He'd have to be stupid to ever leave you."

He says it so matter-of-factly and his deep blue irises flare with such intensity that her heart catches in her throat, along with any sort of response.

"I'm just saying," he shrugs, as if he hasn't weakened her at the knees. "He's just a square jaw and classically handsome. Not what you're into at all."

"And what would you know about what I'm into?" she asks, immediately regretting it when a slow smirk buds at his mouth.

And then, without warning—he dips her.

He leans down, his face inches from hers.

She forgets how to breathe.

"Your pupils are dilated, Captain," he husks before pulling her back up, his chest flush with hers.

They've been playing this game of poker for the past two months. He teases her, acting like he holds all the cards. She teases him back, refusing to fold.

She thinks of laser-tag battles, toy helicopter races, and rocking out to Guitar Hero. Playing board games and beating him at Scrabble. Movie nights with the projector where she anchors herself on the opposite end of the couch, a canyon of space between them, wishing she could cuddle into his side and the soft warmth of him in one of his cashmere sweaters.

She recalls the other night when he dragged out his drumset and she'd accidentally mentioned she used to fiddle around with the guitar and his daughter had retrieved the acoustic one laying around in her bedroom and begged her to perform a song.

The only one she'd known off the top of her head was Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles. A simple three chord progression but finger-picking some of the individual notes had been tricky.

Here comes the sun, doo-doo-doo-doo

Here comes the sun, and I say

It's alright

He'd looked at her like she was the sun and he'd follow her across the sky any day. It's the way he's looking at her right now and it's her undoing.

Because she's not the sun.

He is.

She's spent all this time trying to keep him at arm's length, yet somehow, his body is pressed up against hers in exquisite friction, perfectly aligned. The heat of him, unbearable.

It's no use fighting it anymore and she's tired of pretending.

Little darlin', it's been a long, cold, lonely winter

Little darlin', it feels like years since it's been here

Lanie's right.

She's crazy for him. Completely head over heels. Embarrassingly so.

Here comes the sun

Here comes the sun, and I say

It's alright

How else can she explain why she keeps her desk drawer stocked with three different types of candy? Or how much she misses him when he isn't at the precinct and typing away on his laptop, driving her nuts by propping his feet up on her office couch like he belongs there? Or how it feels like her day doesn't start until his fingers deliberately brush against hers when he hands her a cup of coffee?

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes

When she doesn't bite back with a snippy rejoinder, instead letting her gaze flick to his lips, Castle's smug expression falters and his eyes swirl with question and something like longing.

She stares openly at his mouth, wanting nothing more than to just lean in, all the reasons she shouldn't suddenly seeming irrelevant and insignificant. She knows he isn't that dark and brooding playboy anymore. She's seen how much he's changed for his family. For himself.

Maybe even for her, she hopes foolishly.

Little darlin', I feel that ice is slowly melting

Little darlin', it seems like years since it's been clear

Maybe it's the person he's been all along, but no one had taken the time to get to know him. The real him—the devoted father, the doting son, the amazing man.

And he's changed her, too. Opened her up in ways no one else has. She's given him her secrets, shown him her grief, and he's shouldered it all, her fight becoming his fight. He had her back, no matter what. He was her friend. Her partner.

More than.

She never thought she'd meet her equal in someone like him, someone who could challenge her, but he surprises her every day with his boundless imagination, his vim and vigor for life, and his compassionate heart.

Did it really matter how they met?

She's about to rise up on her toes, about to call him on his bluff, when she's yanked back into reality by a tap on her shoulder and someone asking, "Can I cut in?"

She turns to find Will holding out his hand for her.

"How long have you been together?" Sorenson asks.

"Oh, we're not," she says reflexively. "Just friends."

"Could've fooled me. I don't think I've ever seen you so smitten."

(God, was she that obvious?)

Her cheeks color.

"I am not!"

He chuckles.

"So he's doing research on you? Doesn't he have a bunch of bestsellers already?"

"He's had a bit of a rough patch lately. Needed new inspiration."

"And with all the fat, balding detectives in the NYPD, he just so happens to end up shadowing you?"

She frowns.

"He saved my life."

"I see," Sorenson says, thoughtful. "Does he know about you standing in line for an hour to get his book signed? Or how his books got you through your mother's death?"

"Is there anything you don't remember?" she huffs.

"Not when it comes to you," he murmurs, his hand pressing further into her back. She tenses. "I'm really glad you came," he adds. "You look fantastic."

"Thank you," she says politely.

"Trying to make me jealous?" he asks.

Her eyebrows draw inward. "I didn't think that was still possible."

(Was he…coming onto her?)

"With you, anything's possible."

She clears her throat.

"You know what, I should get back to Castle. Who knows what might happen if I leave him alone for too long?"

"Kate."

She shakes out of his hold in disgust, the truth so clear now. She hadn't been the problem, had she?

"Goodbye, Will. Say hi to your wife for me."

She finds the writer at the bar, regaling the bartender.

"Is this man bothering you?" she asks.

Castle pivots toward her.

"How was the G-man?"

She sighs theatrically. "Boring."

"Told you so."

"You sound like my mother," she laughs.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

She rolls her eyes with a grin.

"Wanna get out of here?"

He hops off his seat, scooping his suit jacket up.

"Thought you'd never ask."

She's starving for some greasy food (the dinner portions had been tiny), so she directs his driver to Remy's Diner.

"They have the best milkshakes," she promises as they glide into booth seats across from each other. When Ruth, their waitress, stops by, Beckett orders cheeseburgers and fries for both of them.

"Also, a strawberry shake for me and—" she assesses him. "Chocolate. Extra whipped cream."

"And extra chocolate sauce," Castle pipes in.

"And extra chocolate sauce," she repeats with a laugh. "Please."

"Right away," Ruth says, smiling jovially, "You look very nice tonight, Captain. Special occasion?"

"Something like that," Beckett provides, mindlessly twiddling with her corsage and sneaking a glance at Castle. His bow tie is loose and his collar is open and it's unbelievably sexy.

"Who's your friend?"

"Richard Castle," the writer answers, offering his hand.

"Your author," Ruth gasps, shaking it and reassessing him with interest.

"You talk about me?" Castle asks, a cocky grin sprouting on his face. "Anything about my ruggedly handsome good looks?"

"See what I mean?" Beckett sighs.

"Oh, yes," Ruth chuckles. "Tell your dad I said hi," she adds before leaving to fill their order.

"You come here often?" Castle asks, curious.

"My dad and I get together for lunch every week. This was one of my mom's favorite places in the city," she admits.

His cocky grin fades into a soft smile. "Well, then…I'm honored to be here," he says, genuine.

It used to unsettle her, how easy it was to let him in, but now it just feels like the most natural thing in the world.

"Diner food is a sacred post-prom tradition. I had to treat you to the best," she says.

"You're treating me?"

"It's the least I can do," she says softly. Thank you for sticking around. Thank you for being you.

"I told you I'm amazing at weddings," he jokes, his eyes warm and sparkling.

"I never doubted it." She smiles at him, wide and uninhibited.

His head tilts slightly in question.

"Okay, now you're the one freaking me out. Why are you being so nice?"

"What are you talking about? I'm nice."

"Not to me. Not like this," he says, "Oh, wait. It's the alcohol, isn't it?" He sits back in his booth and grins like he's cracked the case. "Who knew you were such a sappy drunk?"

"Are you trying to piss me off?"

Maybe the game was all they had. Maybe she's been reading him all wrong.

"I usually never have to try," he says.

"Only because you never listen," she snaps, "And for the record, I am not drunk. Buzzed, maybe. But my mental faculties are completely in order."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Castle, I swear to God."

He breathes out a dramatic sigh of relief. "There you are. Just had to double-check."

She throws a sugar packet at his head, smacking him right between his eyes.

"Satisfied?"

They fall back into their usual rhythm during their meal, poking and prodding, navigating safe topics like his mother and daughter. Martha is up for a Tony nomination for Mame and Alexis is thinking about applying to law school after completing her undergrad at NYU early.

"If she's looking at Columbia, my dad could give her a recommendation," Beckett says, pulling back the sleeves of Castle's suit jacket, which had found its way around her shoulders at some point.

"Seriously?"

"Of course."

She reaches over and dips a fry in his shake.

"Hey! You have your own."

"But it tastes better with chocolate," she pouts.

"I thought 'strawberry is superior'," he quotes.

"By itself, sure. But it's basic science that fries and chocolate go together."

"Science?" he chuckles, not buying it.

"You can't deny science," she says, dipping another fry in his shake and biting down. She closes her eyes, relishing in the divine flavor combination of sweet and salty. A small moan escapes from her throat.

"Oh, yeah, I'm a huge fan of science."

Her eyes fly open to find him watching her with a hunger that has nothing to do with food.

Her heart pounds heavily and her skin thrums with heat.

"Stop looking at me like that," she hisses.

"Like what?" He says innocently. "Have I mentioned you look beautiful tonight?"

"Castle," she whispers, half-breathless, half-warning. He has to stop. Because she doesn't know how much longer she can resist him, already destroyed by the raw desire on his face.

It's not just a game.

When Ruth interrupts with the check, she's never been more grateful.

She's silent on the way back to her place as she stares studiously out the car window, the city passing by in a blur of lights.

"Did I do something?"

She doesn't know how to answer him. There's no way she can tell him she's finally admitted to herself that she's fallen for him or that she's a hair's breadth away from climbing onto his lap and tearing off his shirt. And his wanton gaze is not helping.

Because she's not entirely sure if she's ready to change things. What if it doesn't work out? What if it's all just lust and desire? Did he really feel the same way? Wasn't some of him better than none at all?

"I read Frostbite," she blurts out.

"I was wondering when you were going to bring it up. I've been dying to know what you think," he says. "So?"

"I actually haven't finished it yet, but it's…illuminating," she provides diplomatically. "Kind of a fast turnaround, isn't it?"

"I started during my recovery last winter and filled in the gaps once I started shadowing you," he says, "It's in the editing phase now, so I wanted to get people's opinions on it since it's the first book I've written in a while and I wanna get it right. Let 'em know that Richard Castle, mystery novelist, is really back, you know?"

It's cute that he's so nervous.

"You're gonna knock 'em dead."

"You think so?"

"I'm never wrong, am I?" she says.

"You really think it's good?"

She hasn't told him how his books saved her. How his words brought her back to life.

She'd started re-reading all his novels during his recovery, and she was reminded of how much she appreciated how his heroes always pursued justice, even when no one believed in them, and how the villains always got what they deserved.

She was also reminded of how much humor and life he gave his characters, how he imbued them with light. Something she'd desperately needed in her darkest moments.

"You've always been good with mystery," she says with a soft smile. "But you might need to ask me for my opinion again when I'm sober. Apparently, I'm a drunk sap tonight."

She means for it to come out teasingly but it leaves her mouth in a sarcastic bite.

Luckily, they've arrived at her building, so she makes a quick escape.

"Wait!" he shouts, climbing out of the car after her.

She slows to a halt. Reluctantly faces him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be such an ass back at the diner," he implores, "I had a really great time tonight. I don't want to end it like this."

She doesn't want it to end at all.

Oh.

Guess that answered that.

Maybe she is ready to change things. To take a chance, gamble everything, chips all in, and figure out if they can be more.

"Walk me to my door?" she says.

"Really?" he asks with breathless caution.

"Isn't that what my prom date would do?"

At her door, he leans against the wall and watches her root around her clutch for her keys. She's been searching for a good minute, not-so-subtly stalling.

She asked him up to her door and now it's his turn to make a move. But he's standing a respectable distance away, giving her space. Way too much space.

Why the hell isn't he kissing her?

He scorches her with his stare instead.

She can't take it.

"What?" she asks.

"I didn't say anything."

"I can hear you thinking," she accuses.

"You're still mad at me about something. What is it?"

She lets out a defeated sigh as her fingers dance over her keys, found ages ago.

"You really have no idea, do you?"

"Yeah, well. You're the one mystery I can't seem to solve."

She huffs out a breath of disbelief.

"You're an idiot."

"I know I can be," he says, his eyebrows pinching together in concern. "But what am I an idiot about this time?"

Screw it. If he can't take a hint—

Her bag thumps to the ground, her keys spilling out in a chorus of clinks, and she closes the distance, her hands rising up to his collar, pulling him to her, her mouth slanting over his in a fierce, almost angry kiss.

He tastes like salt and chocolate and every cup of coffee he's ever given her. So rich and hot and just...

Finally. Oh, God, finally.

But then he stumbles and parts from her, stupefied.

What? Did he not want—?

Her next thought is cut off by the writer surging into her and slamming her spine into wood and kissing her back, deliberate and intense and thorough, like he's thought about kissing her before, like it's the only thing he ever thinks about.

Her knees buckle.

He shoves his suit jacket off of her, needing more access to her skin, her neck.

She knew it was going to be good, but this…this is unlike anything she's ever felt before.

No one has ever kissed her like this; ever set her on fire like this. She moans. Burning for him. Burning for more.

But he eventually breaks for air, his lips swollen and breath ragged.

"This doesn't have anything to do with seeing your ex get married, right?"

She glares at him, aroused and frustrated. Her ex? No. This has been months in the making. Ever since his alter ego showed her what they could be. Ever since he woke up in that hospital bed. Ever since he walked into her office, scarred with the bullets he took for her, asking to shadow her.

God, doesn't he know what he does to her?

"He's not the one who's been driving me crazy all this time." She doesn't want to talk about Will. "Now shut up and kiss me."

He grins, pleased.

"Best. Prom date. Ever."

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes

Chapter Text

She feels like she's about to combust, her whole body exploding with heat. And it's only been a couple minutes. One of her hands sneaks under his untucked dress shirt to skim his abdomen.

"You're killing me," he groans.

"You know, if you play your cards right, you might get lucky. It is prom night, after all," she teases breathlessly.

Suddenly, there's cool air between them, his body no longer pressing firmly against hers.

She immediately mourns the loss of contact.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says quickly. His face fills with something indecipherable. "It's just…I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I…"

Because I love you, Kate.

It should scare her. But she's strangely calm.

She just wants him.

"I was kind of hoping it would be more than once," she says with a playful smile.

"You were hoping? More than—? With—?" he splutters. It's adorable how tongue-tied he is. But she wants to go back to the part where he's kissing her senseless. She reaches for him, her mouth chasing after his, but he stops her before their lips touch. "Well, wait." He cradles her jaw in his hand, staring at her intently. "I want to take you on a proper date. I want you to put on an outfit, thinking of me."

"Who says I haven't already?"

"Jesus," he chokes out. "You're making this very—"

"Hard?" she fills in, her hand dipping toward his groin.

He promptly grabs both of her wrists and slams her arms above her head. She gasps, extremely turned on by this side of him. By him taking control.

"Stop that," he growls.

"In fact, I put my underwear on just for you," she reveals with a naughty grin.

He curses under his breath and takes a step back, releasing her, needing to physically restrain himself. It sends a thrill through her at how completely undone he is. How affected he is by her.

"Damnit, Kate," he snaps, "This isn't some flight of fancy for me."

"Flight of fancy?" she says with a small laugh.

"Beckett."

The slap of her surname sobers her. She's never seen him look so serious before.

Or so nervous.

"Castle," she beseeches. Her fingers snag the lip of his pants and tug him back to her. "I don't want to keep ignoring this."

"So you've thought about it, too?" he asks, moving strands of hair away from her face so he can see her better. "Us?" He clarifies. "Together?"

How does she say it's practically the only thing she thinks about these days without sounding completely pathetic?

Her nose nudges the slope of his. "Can't get you out of my head, Writer Boy."

That sends him back to her, erasing the space between them, kissing her again, hot and deep and toe-curling. Finally.

She matches him kiss for kiss, just as greedy, just as hungry.

And then his tongue is doing sinful things to the sensitive spot behind her ear. Oh, fuck. "Rick," she gasps. "Hallway." The last thing she needs is Mrs. Bukowski from 2D catching her in flagrante.

He doesn't stop, but he finds her mouth again, tempering his exploration, kissing her with a tenderness, so delicate and aching, her heart stutters.

His forehead lays against hers after.

"That was amazing," he breathes out softly.

"Yeah," she murmurs, a slow grin splitting her face as she relishes in the afterglow. Wow. "Would you like to come inside?"

A tortured expression consumes his features.

"You don't know how much I want to say yes," he rasps.

Her lips twist upward, acutely aware of his want pressing into her thigh.

"But I don't want the memory of anything else that could happen between us tonight to be overshadowed by the memory of your ex's special day. I just—" he stops and suddenly grabs one of her hands, placing it on his chest over his heart. She feels the beat of it meet her palm, hard and fast. "I just want to do this right. Especially with you."

It's sweet. So incredibly sweet and overwhelming, it makes her whole body shiver slightly. As if Will could overshadow him. But Castle can't help but play the romantic, can he? Always the writer.

It's one of her favorite things about him—how he makes little moments special and makes a point to celebrate the big ones.

And this was a hell of a moment, wasn't it?

She can give him his grand gesture.

"Okay, Romeo," she concedes with a radiant grin. "What do you have in mind for this proper date?"

He beams.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

He leaves her standing in front of her door, all tight and wound up and her heart racing out of control.

It makes her fall for him a little more.

But she also hates him for it.

Because now she knows what it's like with him, and it's better than she imagined. Her fingertips trace her lips, still feeling the burn of him. Her whole body, flush from his touch, the taste of him seared on her tongue.

Oh, God.

They just made out like two hormone-addled teenagers.

She picks up her keys and enters her apartment with a besotted smile and a pink blush to her cheeks. She falls onto her couch with a contented sigh, letting herself cool as she admires the corsage on her wrist. It's a little worse for wear, a couple petals missing. He loves me. He loves me not. She plucks another one. He loves me.

Fuck, she's kind of stupidly in love with him, isn't she? Picking at a flower like a child, girlish hope blooming in her chest. No boy or man has ever made her feel so shy and giddy.

She toes her heels off, rises to her feet, and approaches her bookshelf, running a hand over the spines of his novels before stopping and selecting Flowers For Your Grave.

She cracks it open, her eyes flitting over the dedication.

To my daughter, the light of my life.

And then to the message inscribed underneath, thinking of the day he'd signed it almost a decade ago.

She'd been around twenty-five and she'd just gone undercover on her first case in Vice. It had gone south very quickly and her superiors had jumped down her throat; blamed her for letting the suspect get away when they'd been the ones to give her the wrong intel. She'd spent an hour crying in the bathroom and left afterwards, wandering the streets, drained and demoralized, wondering if she was cut out to be a cop.

A line winding out of the Union Square Barnes & Noble had caught her eye and when she saw why, she immediately joined the throng. It took over an hour before she reached him, but it gave her time to clean up her tear-stained face and figure out what she wanted to say to him. He was between marriages then and every other woman had been shamelessly flirting and flashing their chests at him.

She'd had to purchase the new release, something called Hell Hath No Fury, and she'd started reading it, but she gave him her coffee-stained and dog-eared copy of Flowers For Your Grave from her purse instead. She liked to re-read it on her breaks.

"Who can I make it out to?" he asks on autopilot, not even looking up.

"Uh, Johanna. With an 'h'. Two 'n's. My mom. She's a huge fan," she rambles, completely forgetting whatever smooth thing she planned on saying. "You're her favorite author."

He lifts his head and meets her eye, intrigue flaring in a sea of cerulean.

"What about you?"

She has no idea what possesses her, but what she says next flies out of her without thought.

"I don't know." She motions with her copy of Hell Hath No Fury. "Angry wiccans out for blood? Isn't that a little cliché? Not to mention, pretty reductive?"

He huffs a surprised laugh and embarrassment heats her cheeks.

"I'm sorry. That was incredibly rude."

"No, no. Don't apologize. It was incredibly refreshing actually."

She ducks her head and tucks some hair behind her ear.

"Well, uh, that one is a gift for my mom. She's had a bad day and could really use the pick me up."

She swallows hard around the sudden lump in her throat, fresh tears threatening to spill over.

His gaze softens and his fingers feather the well-worn edges of her book. He takes a moment and then scribbles something down, passing it back to her with a warm and genuine smile. Nothing like the cocky playboy grin she expected.

"I'll try and put in a little more effort on the next one. I'd hate to disappoint again."

She chokes on a small laugh and manages a watery Thank you before someone ushers her away.

Outside the store, she'd eagerly scanned his neat scrawl.

Johanna—

Even on the worst days, there's a possibility for joy.

P.S. Your daughter is hot.

She couldn't stop smiling for a long time after. And she'd resolved not to quit her job, to not let one bad day drown her, his words buoying her; keeping her head above water.

She presses the daisy corsage between the pages and returns the book to its spot.

Her gaze drifts and lands on her copy of Frostbite splayed open on the coffee table.

Hmm.

She could use a bubble bath.

She stays up late, finishing in the middle of the night, laying in bed, moonlight spilling over her in the dim-lit room, her hair long since air-dried into kinky waves, her chest aching and her eyes damp.

She can't believe it.

He wrote her a love story.

And it absolutely wrecked her.

It isn't some cheap and pulpy action thriller with a thin plot, hastily propped up by some raunchy sex scenes. No…he wrote her as a justice-avenging hero who, despite her flaws and deep-seated trauma, got to be in love.

She might be biased, but she thinks it's the best thing he's ever written.

In the morning, Lanie calls her, hoping to hear some hot gossip, but Beckett's evasive, not ready to share any new developments just yet.

"He was the perfect gentleman," she claims.

"Okay, now I know you're lying," Lanie exasperates.

"If there was something to tell you, I would," Beckett protests.

"I need details. If I find out you've been holding out on me, so help me—"

"We'll talk tomorrow," Beckett interrupts.

She quickly hangs up before the medical examiner can pester her further. And then her phone buzzes with an incoming text.

It's from him.

Her heart skips a beat.

Good morning, Captain. Last night wasn't a dream, right? We still on for later?

A soft smile paints her lips as she types out her response.

No, you definitely weren't dreaming. And looking forward to it, handsome.

So you do think I'm handsome?

She puffs a laugh, so clearly visualizing the smug look on his face, and rolls her eyes.

Don't gloat, okay? It's really unattractive.

I will never gloat again.

She giggles.

(God, when was the last time she actually giggled?)

They exchange a few more barbs, flirtatious and teasing, and then she asks what she should wear and he suggests something formal. A nice outfit, but not necessarily black tie.

Or any one of those sexy pantsuits you wear to your budget meetings.

She snorts a small laugh. The bigwigs at 1PP were always so stuffy. And the pantsuits gave her a psychological edge.

But she has something else planned for him. Something that will drive him crazy.

Something that she hopes will end up on the floor by the end of the night.

Oh, yeah.

She's going to wreck him right back.

She calls a favor into a hair stylist, an old family friend who used to be her mother's go-to before a big court case. Jean-Luc clears the day for her, elated for the opportunity to make her over. She shows him a couple reference pictures for what she has in mind and he jumps in with enthusiasm, chattering away in French.

Hours later, she has golden highlights and her hair is styled in waves of curls like Rita Hayworth in Gilda. She'd wanted to do something classic, but less June Cleaver or Donna Reed and more femme fatale.

"C'est magnifique," Jean-Luc crows, proud of his creation. "Just like ta mère."

And it's like having a small piece of her mother with her, helping her get ready for her big date. Her eyes water as she gives Jean-Luc's hand a grateful squeeze.

Back at her apartment, she digs out the dress she'd happened upon the week before when she was checking out a new coffee shop that had recently opened down the block. A pop-up sale had been on the sidewalk. A rack of vintage dresses. And one of them was an exact replica of Grace Kelly's famous dress in Rear Window.

She didn't think she'd have reason to wear it so soon, but she'd bought it because of him, fantasizing of the day she could surprise him with it. The black velvet bodice is a perfect and snug fit. The deep v-neck and slightly off-shoulder short-sleeves, accentuating the ridge of her collarbones. The white tulle skirt flares out from her hips enticingly and floats prettily around the middle of her calves.

For her make-up, she applies a neutral eyeshadow, some blush, a sleek cat-eye, and a dark red lip, using a stain that will last for hours and won't leave streaks or smears.

She knows he likes how tall she is, so she slips on a pair of black kitten-toed shoes with spiky four-inch heels.

Once she clasps her mother's pearl necklace around her throat, she admires her appearance in her floor-length mirror, a wicked gleam in her eyes, delicious anticipation coursing through her and excitement fluttering in her chest.

There's a knock on her door fifteen minutes before 6 p.m.

"You're early," she says, letting the door open while she finishes putting on her earrings.

"I couldn't—" he stops mid-sentence, his entire face going slack with awe. "Wait," he finishes, dazed. "You…you're—wow," he fumbles.

She grins impishly, inordinately pleased.

"Where have you been all my life?" he says hoarsely.

Heat rushes over her skin, fast and searing. Just a look, a few words, and she's already burning.

Get a grip.

But it's so hard, especially when it's her turn to check him out. She drinks in the freshly-polished dress shoes, the well-fitted suit pants, the dark brown jacket (a soft, buttery leather), and his deep blue button-down open at the throat with no tie.

His hair is coiffed as usual but a little mussed, a few strands rebelliously falling onto his forehead, and he'd left some scruff on his jaw and chin. Want curls in her abdomen. He's the very picture of a dashing rogue. Not a knight in shining armor, but a knight errant; a maverick Prince Charming.

And so good-looking, it actually makes her heart hurt a little.

"You didn't shave," she notes, a little flustered.

He grins, leaning in, the scent of his familiar cologne hitting her. God, she loves how he smells.

"Don't think I haven't noticed how your eyes linger when I leave some stubble."

A laugh tumbles from her lips, only to be interrupted by the press of his mouth, soft yet insistent. He brings a hand to her jaw, deepening the kiss, his tongue dancing with hers.

It's addicting, the heady rush that spears through her, his clever mouth already an expert at drawing moans and sighs from her.

She has to pull away, the intensity of the kiss growing too quickly, her whole body aching with need. "Don't start something you can't finish," she says, short of breath.

"Oh, I can finish."

She arches her brow.

"Thought you were gonna buy me dinner first."

He groans, his head falling against the doorframe.

"How can I control myself when you're torturing me like this? I mean, what the hell is this?" he asks, his fingers catching in her hair. "Payback for last night? Next, you're gonna tell me about the sexy underwear you put on and—"

"Who says I'm wearing any?" she says, smiling deviously.

She loves the way his eyes darken and his knuckles turn white, his grip tightening around the bunch of flowers he brought her. He thrusts them toward her then like a buffer.

"We need to go. Right now."

She accepts the bright and vibrant spray of sunflowers and purple daisies, stilling.

He brought her flowers.

She's been given flowers before. But these aren't the cheap drugstore kind. Or a typical bouquet of roses. These are professionally arranged with plant sprigs and bits of baby's breath mixed in, the whole thing so obviously crafted with care and thought and meaning.

Something straight from the heart.

Her heart pounds and it hits her then—this isn't just about lust and desire. She had a hunch, more of a running theory really… a theory that's been more than corroborated by the supporting evidence and witness statements. But this small gesture is what confirms it for her.

This is more.

This is everything.

She hasn't told him her favorite color, but somehow he knows, or strongly suspects. She used to hate it, the way he'd observe her. It made her feel so exposed, so utterly vulnerable, but now she doesn't mind being seen by him. She'd shown him her scars and he kept coming back.

"These are gorgeous. Thank you," she rasps. "Can you give me a few more minutes?"

(Jesus, why was she so emotional all of a sudden?)

He notices the shift in her tone and softens.

"I'll wait as long as you need," he says with such ease and sincerity, it feels like he means more than just this moment. Like he'd always wait for her. Like he's been waiting for her.

He's going to ruin her.

Because I love you, Kate.

He's already ruined her.

She brushes a whisper of a kiss on his lips before shutting the door on him, needing to retreat; a moment to collect herself.

It scares her how much her heart is already his. But there's no stopping it now. She's too powerless to resist. Especially when it feels this good; this right.

She hunts down a vase for his flowers and carefully arranges them on her kitchen counter so they'll be the first thing she sees when she comes home.

She slips on her black velvet peacoat in the bedroom. It had been unseasonably warm the day before but storm clouds had been gathering in the sky all afternoon.

She gives herself one last spritz of perfume and inhales a large breath, thinking of the man waiting on the other side of her door, and a sudden calm washes over her; a deep knowing.

This is it—her last first date.

"Where are you taking me, anyway?" she asks when she steps back out and locks the door behind her.

"I'm not telling."

"Not telling? Are you forgetting who you're talking to?"

"You may be a master of interrogation, but you're not getting this one out of me," he declares haughtily.

"I think you're underestimating the powers of my persuasion."

"Oh, yeah? How do you plan on persuading me?"

"This is cruel and unusual punishment, Captain," Castle whines from the backseat.

She's sitting in the front, next to Glen, their driver, a stoic man with neatly cropped salt-and-pepper hair, a pressed suit, and a permanently severe look on his face.

"You're the one who can't keep his hands to himself."

"You started it!"

She'd been trying to get him to give up the surprise by slowly unfastening his shirt, button by button, her lips claiming each new small strip of skin that became available to her. He retaliated by sneaking his fingers up her leg, caressing her thigh.

She had to stop the car.

She had to.

She really wasn't wearing any underwear.

"Glen? Where's the button to bring up the partition?"

Castle lunges forward. "Glen, don't do it. Don't show her. You know what a good tipper I am. Would you really want to put that in jeopardy? Think this through."

"He wouldn't stoop that low, Glen."

"Glen, please let me have this. She won't let me kiss her again. Won't let me touch her. I just want to talk to her and tell her she has the kind of face people write songs about. Are you really going to deny me that?"

Damn him and his words.

She's about to raise the white flag of surrender when the divider starts to rise.

She wonders for a moment, if she willed it by accident, until she finds Glen pressing a dial on the center console. Her hand covers her mouth, hiding a surprised laugh.

"I will never forget this, Glen!" shouts Castle as he disappears from view.

"He talks too much, don't you think?" the driver says, staring straight ahead with the barest hint of a smile on his face.

"Oh, Glen. I think we're going to get along very well."

The writer starts bombarding her phone with texts.

Helen of Troy's got nothing on you.

She scoffs, quickly typing out her reply.

You've totally used that line before.

It's not a line if it's the truth.

I'm not one of your bimbettes or celebutantes. Your charm has no effect on me.

The evidence begs to differ.

What evidence?

That hair. That dress. Those sky-high heels. You did all that for me. Face it, Captain. I make you swoon.

How do you know it wasn't for Glen? I'm really into this intimidating silver fox thing he's got going on.

She hears a sudden pounding on the partition and muffled yelling.

"Glen, you better not be sweeping her off her feet! She's supposed to be on a date with me!"

She snickers loudly.

"Was that a laugh? Did you make her laugh? You are so fired, Glen!"

"I'm sorry about him," she chuckles to the driver.

"I'm used to it. Though it's nice seeing someone else keep him on his toes." He throws her an appraising glance. "You're the one he wrote the book about."

"He gave you a copy, too?"

"He knows I don't beat around the bush."

"What'd you think?"

"I think…that's one hell of a love letter he wrote you."

Her jaw drops a little and a slightly stunned laugh falls out, her heart battering against her ribcage at the possibility of her Castle loving her.

Because I love you, Kate.

She'd been holding onto words from another version of him. Words that didn't belong to her.

But he never had her heart.

Not the way the man in the backseat does. Not even close.

"Glen! You're a total softie, aren't you?"

"Don't tell, Mr. Castle. I need to keep up appearances."

She smiles.

"Your secret's safe with me."

Castle sends her a text request a few minutes later, asking her to close her eyes a couple blocks before their arrival. She obliges, feeling a little bad for all the ribbing at his expense.

"Keep 'em closed," he says, helping her out of the car, both hands steadying her.

But she still stumbles into him, her heel catching on something. "Is this really necessary? I know we're at Central Park."

"I landed a hot air balloon here once. Naked."

"Castle."

"Okay, okay. Open 'em," he says, positioning himself behind her, hands on her hips.

A few feet in front of them is a white horse-drawn carriage with red velvet seats. A driver in a tophat sits on his perch, alongside a man with a saxophone. She startles, recognizing—

"Is that—"

"Donny McCaslin, one of the great modern American jazz saxophonists," Castle announces with panache, "I know how much you like listening to Coltrane and Donny just so happened to be in town helping Bowie record his new album."

"Shut the front door," she squeals, hitting him in the chest excitedly. "Since when do you know Ziggy fucking Stardust?"

"I don't. My mother partied with him back in the 70s at Cordova House and Studio 54. The Starman said he was only willing to loan Donny out to us in exchange for Mame house seats and a backstage visit."

"I can't believe you did this."

She approaches the carriage, getting in, and reaches out for a handshake with Donny.

"Hi, I'm Kate," she says, "I'm a huge fan of your work. I appreciate you braving the cold for this."

"It's my pleasure to perform for a woman who clearly has good taste. Though I can't say the same for your choice in men," Donny replies with an easy grin.

She stifles a chuckle.

"You can so forget me naming a character after you in my next book," Castle snipes at Donny as he steps into the carriage.

"Oh, how will he ever go on?" she teases.

"Et tu, Beckett?"

Donny winks at her before wrapping his lips around the reed of his saxophone and blowing into the mouthpiece, eliciting a bright, jazzy tone from the golden instrument.

"Why is everyone trying to steal my date tonight?" Castle grumbles, settling in next to her. He drapes a blanket over their laps and hands her what looks like a pair of mini rubber tongs.

"What's this?"

"Nose clip. I don't trust Ryan and Esposito there," he says, nodding at their horses. "They're always trying to cause a stink."

"I'll take my chances," she says with a laugh.

The writer puts a pair over his nose. "Does it turn you on?" he asks, his voice all nasally.

She giggles. "You do kind of make nerdy sexy."

"Hear that, Donny? She thinks I'm sexy."

Donny plays a complicated riff in response.

"Now, that's sexy."

"I haven't been in one of these since I was a kid."

"I know it's pretty cheesy, but I also know it's been a while since you've treated yourself to something silly and frivolous, so I figured you deserved all the cheese."

He's doing it again. Ruining her. She wants to tell him how endearing she finds it, how she appreciates his need to create a fairytale moment for her. But—

"I can't take you seriously when you sound like that."

"Do you ever take me seriously?" he jokes, but she detects an undercurrent of insecurity in his voice.

"Rick," she murmurs, shifting to face him, her nearest hand surging up to palm his cheek. "I'm serious about this. About you. And I'm here for all the cheese. I think it's really sweet."

He stares at her, a little floored. "You're serious."

Why is he so surprised? Doesn't he know by now? Doesn't he see how much she adores him?

She digs the nose clip he gave her out of her coat pocket and slips it over her nostrils.

"Dead serious," she says in a nasal tone.

His face lights up with her favorite crooked grin before he leans in to kiss her, his lips moving against hers; grateful and reassuring, then, confident and demanding.

"Castle," she chides between breaths, "Don't start. Not in front of Donny."

He chuckles, pressing his smile into her forehead, and winds an arm around her shoulders, trapping her against his chest. She lets her head settle naturally into the curve of his neck and they stay like that for the rest of the ride, reveling in the still-novel yet already familiar closeness of them, accompanied by the melodic crooning of the saxophone and the gentle clop of hoof steps.

"You smell like oranges."

"I think your nose plug is faulty," she says.

"You're sticking your head in my face."

She peels away from his embrace, a fresh retort ready to fly from her mouth, but it dies in her throat when they turn a corner and she sees their final destination…

The Loeb Boathouse.

The green gabled building with brick walls, creamy roman columns, and white-framed windows is nestled in dark greenery and beautifully lit by brass lanterns lining the stone path toward the entrance, a path scattered with a trail of white rose petals. The lake stretches out behind it, a pool of black ink.

"Is that—Castle, what did you do?"

He exits the carriage without comment, removes his nose clip, straightens his posture with a slight puff to his chest, and holds his hand out for her.

"Milady?"

She resists the urge to roll her eyes, instead letting a soft smile tug at her lips as she takes off her own nose clip and reaches for him.

"Oh, wait," she says, pausing in front of Donny. "Can I get your autograph?"

"How come you've never asked me for my autograph?" Castle pouts.

"Ignore him."

Donny chuckles, setting his saxophone down.

"Where'd you like it?"

"Oh, I don't have anything. Maybe my hand or my che—"

"Take my handkerchief," Castle interjects, pushing a white, embroidered cloth between them.

"You got something to write with?" Donny asks.

Beckett automatically flips her palm open to the writer. Waits, expectant.

He harrumphs in mock petulance as he extracts a sharpie from his inner jacket pocket and passes it to her.

"Don't say I never did anything for you."

"Oh, yeah. You're such a martyr," she deadpans.

She gives it to Donny and he scratches his signature on the cloth, throwing amused glances at them.

"Are you two always like this?" Donny asks.

"Yes," they both reply in sync.

Donny returns the signed handkerchief to Beckett's grasp with a chuckle. "I also do weddings, you know."

"We will keep that in mind," Castle laughs.

"We will be doing nothing of the sort," she counters, stepping out of the carriage and breezing past him.

"Calm down, Beckett, we're just joking!" he consoles, chasing after her.

She whirls toward him. "Did you just tell me to calm down?"

"I—"

The cloudy sky rumbles with thunder above them.

"Why don't we head inside? You can yell at me in there," he sighs.

"Can we forget I said anything? I really didn't mean to upset you," he says, helping her out of her coat in the front lobby.

"I'm not upset," she says.

"You're not?"

No, just…caught off guard by the image that popped in her head at the mention of a wedding—the one of him standing at the end of an aisle, waiting for her with a huge smile. And now she's suddenly aching with a different kind of want.

"No, I—"

She catches sight of the main space and her stomach flips.

All the tables have been removed except for one and more white petals cover the floor. The overhead restaurant lights have been dimmed and candles have been placed strategically to create a soft warm glow everywhere.

"Oh, Castle," she breathes out. "You did all this in one day?"

"My mother's reach has no end. I wanted to get fireworks, too. But the weather was totally not on my side."

"Your mother helped you a lot, huh? Why would she do that?"

"You're kidding, right? She's been telling me for weeks to get on with it. You know, kiss you while we're both still young."

"You really should listen to your mother, Castle."

"I was too scared you'd shoot me if I tried anything."

She laughs.

"And I was more afraid you wouldn't want me back. That you only saw me as the guy on Page Six."

He continues before she can open her mouth to respond.

"I just don't want you to worry about who I used to be. Or about there being any other women." He engulfs her jaw with his palm. "It's just you."

"So you're not buying out whole restaurants for other women?" she teases lightly.

He hesitates and her heart constricts.

"I'm not gonna deny I've tried to impress other women by buying out whole restaurants in the past. But not like this. Not this place," he admits, playing with the strands of her hair. He pauses, tucking a section behind her ear and his thumb strokes the slash of her cheekbone. "Because none of them were you."

Her heart stops.

She knows she isn't just another one of his conquests. But it seizes her, the hugeness of his words, what it means…this isn't some flight of fancy.

This is real.

And they're actually doing this.

She smiles at him, big and wide, as her hand slips into his. She squeezes his fingers and leads him toward the candle-lit table for two.

Dinner is a filet mignon cooked to medium rare perfection, fluffy potatoes that fall apart in her mouth, and charred asparagus soaked in butter and coated in sea salt. Castle is kind and complimentary toward the waitstaff and they kill two bottles of 2000 Châteauneuf-du-Pape, the conversation flowing as easily as the rich, red wine.

"Oh, c'mon! It would be so fun. I could name him Sherlock, get him a little hat, and bring him to crime scenes. Have him sniff out clues."

"I'm not allowing a pet dog past the tape under any circumstance."

"But do you think I should get one?"

"It would be your dog. Why should I have a say?" she chuckles.

He quiets and her heart leaps into her throat when he earnestly replies, "I want you to have a say. Especially if you're going to start coming over more often."

Shit, Castle.

"I…"

"I don't mean to assume, I just…" His brow furrows. "A pet is a big commitment and I want you to have a say. I want you to know that you have a say with me. Veto power, if you will."

The subtext of his statement is not lost on her. A relationship is a big commitment, too. But she's ready. This is it for her.

After all, she's a one-and-done type of girl.

It's why she and Tom didn't last, why she couldn't accept Josh's ring and never got back together with Will. They were never serious candidates.

They weren't him.

"Well, I'm more of a cat person," she says after a moment. "I love dogs, too, but they're a lot of responsibility and we both spend more time at the precinct than anywhere else. And cats are more self-reliant. I grew up with one that was black-and-white all over and had this really long tongue. My mom named him Gene Simmons."

He brightens.

"No way! I dressed up as him for Halloween once."

"Get out of here—me, too."

They smile at each other with goofy grins. Yeah, she's ready. So, so ready.

"Have you ever had a pet?" she asks. Are you ready?

"My mother could barely handle the responsibility of caring for a child, let alone a pet. And with Alexis, she begged for a dog, but I was too focused on raising her and trying not to screw up. Plus, Meredith and Gina had allergies, so it was never really on the table."

"But now you're seriously considering it?"

Seriously considering me?

"Edgar Allen Poe had a cat, actually. Her name was Catterina and he'd write with her curled up on his shoulders."

"That's so cute!"

"You did not just call the Master of the Macabre cute."

"Downright adorable."

Amusement dances in his eyes.

"A cat it is, then." I'm ready, too. "Oo, or a raven! Now that's an id—"

"Absolutely not."

"I could train it to deliver messages. Oh, pretty please!"

"Veto, Castle. Major veto."

She's loose and liquid and warm, humming pleasantly around the spoon of Tiramisu she's letting him feed her, the flavor of vanilla custard and coffee crumble bursting on her tongue.

"Kate?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we talk about this? About what we're doing…if it isn't too much?"

She pops free from the utensil.

"Now you're worried about being too much?" she asks with a muffled laugh, covering her mouth and swallowing her bite of dessert.

A self-deprecating smile quirks at his lips. He reaches for her hand on the table.

"I just want to make sure you're comfortable. I know I can be a lot."

He's nervous again, and her heart twinges. She's become accustomed to his arrogant confidence, but here, with her, in the shimmer of candlelight, he's all soft and sweet. It's wholly irresistible.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says tenderly, her thumb smoothing a slow circle on top of his hand. Her words and the intimacy of her gesture seem to bolster him.

"Some days, I think you can't possibly be real. Even now, after spending all this time with you, I'm…" He swings his gaze to her, his eyes a storm of blue. "I'm still amazed at the depth of your strength, your heart…and your hotness."

She smiles hugely.

"You're not so bad yourself, Castle."

His face crinkles with a grin; his fingers tangle with hers. He quiets for a beat and a firm intensity settles across his features.

"I spent years brooding in misery and chasing after things I didn't really want. It was like wandering down a long and dark and never-ending tunnel. I lost hope that I would ever find a way out. Until I met you and I could finally see the light." He pauses and her heart hammers. "I'm not much of a gambling man anymore, but I want to bet on us, Kate. All in. But if you need to take things slow or anything, if you need time—"

"Rick—"

"God, I'm screwing this up already, aren't I?"

"You're doing just fine," she says with the soft, slow smile that's just for him, her eyes shining. He loves me.

"The gambling line was bad, right?"

She shakes her head. "No, no," she huffs. "It's just—I don't need more time. Or to slow down. I've spent the last sixteen years wandering around in my own dark tunnel. But it's more like I've been standing still, trapped in ice, frozen in the past. It's been…" She snags the edge of her lip with her teeth, "…a long, cold lonely winter. And I don't want to wait anymore. I want to move forward."

She gets up from her seat and tugs him along with her, her arms encircling his neck as she seals her forehead against his and whispers, "I'd bet on us, too."

A wild, naked hope breaks dawn on his face. "Yeah?"

She takes one of his hands and places it over her heart, beating hard and fast for him.

"All in."

"Watching in slow motion as you turn around and say…"

He plays the piano nestled in the far corner of the restaurant, his voice, a melodious and rich tenor. She sits next to him on the bench, leaning into his side, her head on his shoulder.

"Take my breath away…"

She snorts a giggle and he stops, pouting slightly.

"I'm trying to serenade you."

She lifts her head and cradles his jaw in her hand.

"Still too soon, silly."

"It's been like four months!"

"Lung surgery is no laughing matter," she admonishes teasingly.

"Well, it's totally our song."

She skims her thumb over his stubble.

"You're so beautiful," she murmurs.

"That's supposed to be my line."

She doesn't care. She kisses him, slow and earnest, savoring him.

"And that was supposed to be my move. You're messing with the natural order."

A mischievous smile springs over her lips. "What are you gonna do about it?"

He swiftly captures her mouth in response, hard and punishing. God, he was good at that.

His hand finds his way under her skirt and travels up her thigh. She gasps in warning, halting his progress again.

"Castle, I'm really not wearing any underwear."

He pulls back, blinking. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

He shifts slightly, swallowing a gulp.

"You know, The Plaza is like a fifteen minute walk from here," he says nonchalantly.

But she sees right through him.

"You reserved a room, didn't you?"

"I didn't want to presume…I just like to be ready for any possibility. Like if there's a zombie apocalypse? I'm all set. Attended a six-week training camp and everything. Might never happen but you never really know, right? It's always good to be prepared. Just in case."

Such a fucking dork.

(But a very hot dork).

"That's what you're going with? Zombie apocalypse?"

She slips out of his embrace and heads toward the exit. She turns at the door and finds him still rooted to the piano bench, looking a little lost. Unsure if he's overstepped. Unsure if he's supposed to follow her or not.

She tilts her head.

"You comin', Castle?"

It's all he needs to jump into action and join her by her side.

"Are you sure—we don't have to—"

She shuts him up with a kiss.

She's never been more sure.

"Tell Glen he can pick us up in the morning."

Chapter Text

"Got something!" he hollers, jogging down the front path with a pair of ratty neon green high tops.

"Where'd you find those?"

"Our waitress said these have been in her work locker forever, but they're clean and everything."

"I told you I can walk in my heels."

"And run the risk of injury? I'm not letting any stray potholes or faulty infrastructure thwart my plans for you."

She shakes her head, biting back a smile, and sits on a nearby wrought iron bench styled with a rose pattern to shuck off her stilettos, suddenly grateful that she and Lanie got mani-pedis together the day before.

Just as she holds her hand out for the shoes, he bends down on one knee.

Her heart freezes.

"Can I—?" he motions with the footwear and she cocks an eyebrow, skeptical and a little cautious.

"You want to put my shoes on for me?" She leans forward and whispers, "Is this a foot fetish thing?"

"No, no," he chuckles. "Just a chivalry thing."

She rolls her eyes, a small smile curving at the corner of her mouth.

"You're really milking this fairytale bit."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He slips one shoe on before she can protest, his touch gentle and warm and firm. Then the other… "Would you look at that? A perfect fit." He grins, lopsided. "Must be fate."

She puffs a laugh, "You're ridiculous, you know that?" And pulls him in for a long and deep kiss, so ridiculously in love with him.

"I used to have ice skates in this color."

She teeters on the edge of the Bethesda Fountain like a gymnast on a balance beam. Castle offers his hand for stability and support as she walks forward, the mahogany handle of a slim black umbrella hooked on the bend of his elbow.

"Oh, I have to see you in action sometime."

The ledge isn't high up, maybe a few feet off the ground, but she takes his hand, enjoying the feel of his strong and thick fingers wrapped around hers, a girlish giddiness spreading wings in her chest.

"Trust me, it's not pretty."

"I highly doubt that."

She rolls her eyes with a small grin and motions at the statue of an angel in the middle of the fountain. "Did you know a woman sculpted her?"

The writer nods.

"Emma Stebbins. She was the first woman to receive a commission for a major public work in New York City, and she was also part of a collective of lesbian artists who called themselves the female jolly bachelors."

She smiles. "You really know your history."

"I used to come here and write. People watch and observe. And well," he tilts his head at the angel, "I had to know her story."

"And?"

Much as she pretends to be exhausted by his seemingly endless chatter, she secretly loves listening to him talk, tell stories, and rattle off fun facts, always entranced by the depth of his knowledge and the way he lights up with a fiery passion.

"She's known as Angel of the Waters," he begins eagerly, "And Stebbins created her to celebrate the opening of an aqueduct that supplied fresh water to the city, which was sorely needed at the time. This was back in the 1840s and they previously had an unsafe water supply plagued by infectious diseases. The fountain is named after Bethesda, a magical pool mentioned in the Bible that cured anyone of whatever disease once they stepped in its waters. The lily in the angel's hand represents rebirth and resurrection and the four figures below her are supposed to be Peace, Health, Purity, and Temperance."

"So this is a healing fountain, huh?" she observes. "Too bad it's empty."

Some of the big fountains in the city were drained of water during the winter to prevent frozen pipes.

"Spring is coming right around the corner," he comments. The clouds rumble above just then and he grins.

"Sooner than we might think."

Fog rolls in around them, lamp light glowing through the misty haze as they stroll hand-in-hand down paved path of the Mall, a wide promenade lined by park benches and majestic trees. The branches arc overhead like the vaulted ceilings of a cathedral; lover's arms intertwining with each other.

The place is usually a popular thoroughfare for tourists, street artists, and pedestrians, but now, in the shade of night, there's no one else around.

Some might consider it a little eerie or spooky, but she finds the whole scene enchanting, something about it reminding her of Mary Poppins. She half expects the magical nanny to float down from the sky and Dick Van Dyke to pop out of the gloom with a gaggle of chimney sweeps, clicking their heels together and humming chim chim cher-ee.

But there's no surprise musical number. Just a quiet peace and serenity; their own little bubble, palms sealed together.

He gently squeezes her fingers. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

She laughs a little. "Since when do you ask permission to ask questions?"

He puffs an wry chuckle and cups a hand around his nape; one of his nervous tics.

"It's just…you here with me, like this, it's all so surreal." He pauses, contemplative. "And I don't want to break the spell by opening my stupid mouth, but I've been wondering since last night…what changed?"

Her brow crinkles with a frown. "What do you mean?"

He drops his hand from hers and her chest tightens, the strings of her heart tensing.

"There's always a story. Always a chain of events that makes everything make sense. Take you for example. Under normal circumstances, you should not be here. A successful and classy and beautiful woman like you doesn't belong with a good-for-nothing scoundrel like me. And yet, here you are. Why?"

The strings loosen.

Oh, Castle.

"Rick—"

But he bulldozes forward.

"All the time I've known you, I've hoped…wished for more, but I wasn't sure you saw me in that way. Or really saw me at all. I thought you were more likely to break one of my limbs than be caught dead in any sort of relationship with me. You know, because I'm just a rake and a has-been. I mean, let's face facts, I'm not exactly your usual type and none of this makes sense on paper."

She huffs. "Are you done?"

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and hangs his head morosely.

"You're right." He snaps his gaze to hers, eyes wide. "I usually go for the safe and boring and by-the-book type. For guys who don't care if I spend more time at the precinct than with them. For guys who always put work first." Understanding slowly dawns on his face. "And I liked that because I always put work first, too. It gave me an opportunity to keep one foot out the door just in case."

"But with one foot out the door, it's hard to know where you stand."

She nods. "When my doctor boyfriend proposed, I had this epiphany that we were too much alike. And not in a good way. And last night…" She reaches for him, looping her arms around his neck, needing him close, needing him to really hear her, "...last night I had another epiphany—I realized I've been chasing after the wrong things and holding myself back from what I really want."

She tenderly swipes the pad of her thumb over his lips and more words spill from her like the rush of water from a broken dam.

"When my mom was killed and my dad lost himself in the bottle, I lost hope. I hated the world. I hated everyone in it. And at one point, I stopped believing in anything good. Because every day in my job, I saw the bad; the worst of humanity. I stopped believing in fairytales and fate and magic and I didn't think I'd ever be more than my past." She flicks her eyes to his, her heart galloping wildly. "But you're the first person to dare me to believe in the good again. Who showed me that I can be more than who I am. You gave me my hope back."

He looks at her in stunned awe and disbelief.

"So you can cut out the pity party crap because when I look at you…" She traces his jaw, "I see the most remarkable…maddening…challenging…frustrating person I've ever met." She tugs on his earlobes. "And maybe we don't make sense on paper, but we don't live our lives on paper...and well, you looked pretty damn good in that suit last night."

"I knew it was the suit," he triumphs.

She giggles.

He gazes at her with a tender expression. Very, very tender. Her heart pounds.

"Kate…you, I—"

"Will you just kiss me already?"

He grins and crashes it against her mirroring one.

The moment their lips meet, the sky finally rips open and rainwater cascades through the ceiling of branches, the downpour like a baptism.

They break apart breathlessly.

"You know, ever since that Spider-Man movie, the Tobey Maguire one, I've wanted to kiss a girl in the rain."

She laughs, "You've never kissed someone in the rain before?"

"Well, no. Have you?"

"Actually…" She thinks. "No, I haven't." She rises on her toes with a smile, "Must be fate," and dives in for another kiss, slaking her thirst with fresh water, sipping and drinking from the fountain of his mouth, a healing fountain of spring and hope and resurrection.

The door light blinks red.

"Damn it," Castle growls. She leans against the wall and watches him wipe the keycard on his pant leg before he jams it into the lock again.

It beeps an error sound; blinks red once more.

"C'mon!" he yells, frustration peeling off him in waves. They'd stumbled into the luxury hotel soaked to the bone, their sides splitting with laughter because they'd been splashed horrendously by a cab, only for their umbrella to be blown inside out and stolen by the wind.

And they were so caught up in each other that they didn't see the bellhop and his incoming luggage cart before it was too late.

The collision had left them both with bruised limbs and dignities.

Then the check-in process had been tortuously long and during their elevator ride, they'd been packed like sardines with other patrons. Apparently, some big event was happening. A fancy socialite wedding, judging by the comically large hats blocking their view of each other.

There'd also been the food tray the writer tripped over three doors down.

And now the key wasn't working.

The obstacles just kept piling up.

"I didn't think it would be so difficult getting you into bed," she says after his third failed attempt with the lock.

Castle groans a laugh as his head thunks onto the door.

"This is a nightmare actually, isn't it? I'm only wearing my underwear and I'm failing a test, aren't I?"

She shakes her head, amused.

"I don't know about any test, but I wouldn't mind if you were only wearing your underwear. In fact—" She pushes off the wall and slips the keycard from his grasp, her lips grazing his ear with a seductive whisper, "I'd like to make that a definite reality."

She flips the card over and slowly inserts it into the lock bay. After a brief, weighted moment, there's a welcome snick and the light flashes green.

She pushes the door open with a smirk.

Inside, the lavish suite is bedecked with an extravagant meadow of flowers and bathed in candlelight.

She fights a smile and lifts an eyebrow at him.

"Not presuming, huh?"

"Would you rather I didn't pre-order the champagne?"

She rolls her eyes, grinning, and then bites her lip.

"You know, right now, I'd much rather not be talking."

She slams him into the door, shutting them both closed as her mouth covers his, hot and wet and rough, finally letting his hand reach under her hem and up, up, up her thigh, her need for him coiling tighter and tighter, the fire on her skin, conflagrating into a raging inferno.

His fingers curl at just the right angle and she snaps, thunder claps, and the flames engulf her whole, the world whiting out around her.

She splashes cold water onto her face, but it does little to combat the molten lava burning through her body and flushing her a deep scarlet.

She'd never fallen apart like that before…so without abandon, so consumed by passion.

She needed a moment to recover; freshen up. The ensuite bathroom is full of white and gold-flecked marble and gilded mirrors. She wipes the rest of her make-up off with a soft and fluffy hand cloth and tears the sanitary paper packaging off the complimentary comb. She runs the hair tool through her rainswept hair, untangling wet knots and smoothing damp curls.

It's a comforting act, as if she's regaining a little more control of herself. When she spots the hair dryer, she decides to plugs it in and soon her damp strands are transformed into dry waves. She styles them in a dramatic side part with the ends curling up off her shoulders, reminiscent of a 60s do. Something like Anne Bancroft in The Graduate.

Maybe it's silly to fix her appearance, but now that she's bare-faced and bare-footed, she's more exposed and she could use at least one layer of armor. Something to ground herself.

No one has turned her into a puddle the way he has, all shaking and quivering.

Fuck.

She clutches the edge of the sink and inhales, long and deep. Exhales slowly.

For all her cool confidence, she's just as terrified as he is, just as nervous and insecure, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the spell to break.

He's been so open and honest and vulnerable with her and she still hasn't told him the truth—the whole story of how he got shot. He deserves the whole story, the entire chain of events that led them to now, but she doesn't want to put another obstacle in their path.

She thinks of Josh and why she didn't accept his ring.

They'd been fighting about Haiti again. He'd been called for another Doctors Without Borders mission. Months long, this time. She didn't know if she could handle the distance, but he said he was prepared to commit to her and proved it by popping the question.

But before she could give her answer, she got a call about her training officer, Royce. He'd been shot in the head and the next few days had been a whirlwind. She went rogue and ran off to L.A. to catch his killer, raining hell.

It had been bittersweet when she'd handcuffed the son of a bitch who put a bullet through her mentor.

Royce had left a letter for her and she must've read the last paragraph a thousand times.

And now for the hard part, kid. Putting the job ahead of your heart is a mistake. It's clear you deserve something real, but you're afraid to be happy. You deserve to be happy. Risking our hearts is why we're alive and the last thing you want is to look back on your life and wonder, if only.

Josh was always going to prioritize saving lives and she couldn't compete with that. She wanted someone who could be there for her and she could be there for him. Just dive into it together.

But if she's going to dive in with Castle, if they're going to have something real, something with true emotional intimacy, she has to face her fears and be open and honest and vulnerable with him.

She removes her jewelry, leaving the pearl earrings and necklace on the vanity like she's laying down her shields.

And heads into confession.

The blaze in the ornate fireplace in the middle of the room crackles loudly.

The writer had moved the coffee table to make space on the plush rug and he's leaning against the elegant sofa, wrapped in a fluffy robe with navy silk boxers poking out through the slit, his drenched clothes drying out on the fireplace screen, his hair pushed back and disheveled. Her handiwork, she notes with a pleased smile to herself, arousal pooling low in her belly.

Jesus, did he have to look so sexy and deliciously rumpled?

He offers her a flute of champagne. "A hit of the bubbly?"

She accepts it and knocks back the entire glass.

"Woah, Nelly," he jokes.

She blushes and hands the empty container back to him.

"More?"

She shakes her head and he sets it aside as she tucks the bouncy tulle of her skirt beneath her and sits next to him.

"Nervous?" he asks gently, brushing a thumb over the bone of her cheek. Her eyes slam shut, the sensation of his touch overwhelming her.

"I need to tell you something," she whispers softly.

"You're not wearing a bra, either, are you?"

A surprised snort escapes her and the tension drains from her shoulders. Her eyes open to his crooked grin and can't help but lean forward and kiss him. He opens for her like a flower and she plunges her tongue inside, tangling with his, hot and slick, the fervency of the kiss blooming all too fast and she faintly recalls, this wasn't the plan.

"Wait, wait, wait." She pulls back. "Before we go any further, we need to talk—put all cards on the table."

He blinks, a little whiplashed, but nods. "Okay."

She stares down at her lap, unable to look him in the eye, her heart in her throat.

"There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just gonna say it…but it's - it's about your shooting."

There's a horrifying beat of silence and she forgets how to breathe.

"My shooting? What about it?"

"Do you, uh, remember anything from that case? Those few days? Anything at all?"

"No, total blank. Why?"

She picks at her dress skirt.

"Well, I have a pretty outlandish theory that might explain your missing time."

"You? Outlandish theory? You're messing with the natural order again."

She flashes him a wan smile.

"Can you just listen, please?"

He tips her chin up.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with an ancient Incan artifact and alternate universes, would it?"

Shock bursts in her chest and ripples through her entire body, her mouth falling agape.

"You know."

"That I got hijacked by a version of myself from a parallel world? Oh, yeah. I've been all over that since my mother and daughter mentioned it in the hospital."

"Since…" She doesn't know how to process this. He's known this whole time?

She suspected he might've known, but hearing it out loud and having actual confirmation feels strange. Like…everything between them is based on a lie.

"And we were supposed to have met seven years ago. At the book party for my last Derrick Storm novel. On this exact date actually. March 9th. Your hair was short then."

How the hell…? And then it hits her.

Mr. Castle, let's just say for a moment that you and I did meet each other. Where would that have been?

At my book party. You came to me. You asked me to consult on a copycat murder. It was six years ago. Your hair was short then. It was adorable.

"You watched the interrogation tape."

"Yeah, I bribed the boys for it."

Hurt slices through her. He went behind her back?

"Why didn't you come to me?"

"There never seemed like a right time to bring it up, and what with you being such a skeptic, I wasn't even sure you believed in the possibility of it all. I didn't want to seem like a raving mad man and give you an excuse to kick me out of the precinct."

How can she trust him? How can she trust anything that he says?

You lied, too, her brain supplies and the sting of betrayal lessens. She was equally at fault, wasn't she? Just as much to blame. But it doesn't erase the sick feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. Doesn't prevent the raising of her defensive hackles.

"Were you ever planning on telling me you knew?"

"I don't know. The more time I spent with you, the more afraid I was of losing you. And after a while, I convinced myself that it wouldn't matter if I told you, that it wasn't really important. It was selfish of me. I'm sorry."

Her hackles lower, the sick feeling dissipating slightly. His reasons for holding back aren't unsimilar to her own.

"It's okay. I'm sorry, too. I could've said something sooner." But a question nags at her. "It's just…is this why you wanted to shadow me? To get the whole story? Is that all this was? Some scheme?"

He loves me. He loves me not.

His eyes widen in panic. "God, no," he rushes out. "I mean, it was part of it, wanting to find answers, but mostly I just wanted to get to know you. I thought maybe if another version of me was in a relationship with someone like you, or you know, another you, then it meant that I could change. That I could be more than who I was. And maybe I could be someone who was worthy enough for you. My you."

That's actually…really sweet. The sick feeling vanishes completely and a pleasant warmth goes through her veins instead, spreading to the ends of her fingers and toes. He loves me.

"Oh, so I'm yours now, huh?" she teases.

"I—well, I didn't mean like I own you or anything, that you belong to me. I just—"

"Castle, relax. I know what you meant," she soothes with a hand over his. "And I get it." She feathers a finger over his knuckles. "I think I didn't say anything earlier because I didn't want to screw up our friendship and talking about this would've forced a conversation about what we are to each other and...I didn't want some other versions of ourselves to dictate what we were supposed to be or how we were supposed to feel." She finds his gaze. "I wanted what we have to be ours and not theirs, you know?"

"Yeah," he smiles. "I do." He tangles their fingers together. "And in the interest of putting all cards on the table, there's something else I need to tell you. Something you should know about me before we go any further."

Her heart rate races, but she calmly replies, "Okay."

He takes a shuddering breath and begins.

"Before I met you, I felt pretty worthless. I was a failure as a father, a son, a writer. And truth be told, a pretty poor excuse for a man. I couldn't find real connection with anyone. It was just one meaningless fling after the other. And I was so incredibly lonely. Eventually, I wondered if there was any point in going on…and on the day I got hijacked, I was actually…" he trails off. "Maybe I shouldn't be saying this. It's not exactly normal first date material."

She puffs a small, ironic laugh. "This hasn't exactly been a normal first date."

His lips lift a little.

"Hey, you can talk to me," she urges softly, palming his cheek. "All in, remember?"

His eyes steel with resolve, and he continues.

"Just before I got hijacked, possessed, whatever…I was about to jump into the Hudson River because I thought I was better off…not here anymore."

Her heart stops and she says the first inane thing that pops into her head.

"Why the Hudson?"

"Less trafficked. Less chance of witnesses."

"Wow," she deadpans on impulse. "You must've been really depressed if New Jersey was going to be the last thing you saw."

He chokes a surprised laugh. "Should I have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge?"

"And be a total cliché?"

"Forgive me if my suicide attempt was too pedestrian for you," he chuckles.

Her eyes expand in alarm and she covers her mouth. "I'm so sorry. That was totally insensitive. I just meant—"

"No, no, it's okay. I know what you meant."

"It was cop instinct, I—"

"Kate," he huffs in amusement. "You're having a much better reaction than my family did. And frankly, I appreciate the gallows humor. It's not like I haven't made an inappropriate joke at a crime scene before. And it's a relief that we can laugh about it a little."

But it is so not a laughing matter. Her eyes burn with tears as she encases him in her arms and buries her face in his neck, needing to feel him, the beat of his heart; make sure he's really there. To think she almost lost him…

"Are you okay now?" she whispers.

He strokes her hair. "Yeah, I've been seeing someone."

She quickly extracts herself from him, her pulse racing. "What?"

"A shrink. I've been seeing a shrink," he placates.

Oh. She pushes a fist into his shoulder. "Don't scare me like that."

He catches her fist and kisses the clenched fingers, chuckling, "Sorry."

She sniffles and adjusts the collar of his robe. "When did you start?"

"When I was still in the hospital, the Commissioner visited me."

"Roy?"

He nods. "We used to play poker way back. And well, he asked if there was anything the NYPD could do to aid in my recovery. Said they had the best trauma counselors on hand and whatnot."

He wipes the silent tears tracking down her face.

"It's in my nature to avoid introspection, but I realized I'd been given a second chance and I needed to take a hard look at myself, so I took him up on his offer and started seeing someone. I was on a bunch of pain pills and antidepressants can react unpredictably with other medicines, so my psychiatrist, Dr. Burke, focused on encouraging alternative options like exercise and regular talk therapy sessions."

He pauses for a moment.

"I started writing again. Gave up my usual vices and mended fences with my mother and daughter. But even with all the positive growth, I was afraid of falling into old habits. So once I was done with my physical therapy, Dr. Burke suggested a change in routine and the next day, I walked into your precinct."

"Do you still go to appointments?"

"I used to go two, three times a week, but I've scaled back recently to just once. He's been helping me lately to try and work up the courage to ask you out."

She smiles and he ducks his head, bashful.

"Look, um, if this is too much, if this changes anything for you and you need to leave, I'd understand."

"Do you want me to leave?"

He doesn't respond.

"Hey, look at me." She tips his chin up. "I'm exactly where I want to be. And it's not too much. I know that was a hard thing to say out loud, but I'm glad you told me. And I'm especially glad you're still here."

"You're okay with this?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

She quiets and reaches out to wipe the silent tears tracking down his face.

"My first three years on the force, I put everything into the job; trying to take care of my dad, but I didn't really care about myself. I would barely eat or sleep. One time, I got my shoulder dislocated while taking down a suspect, and I was put on temporary leave. My T.O. thought I was pushing myself too hard and wanted me to take a break. My dad was off on some bender, so I didn't have anything to focus on except the pain I always pushed down. And I just couldn't take it anymore. I felt like I'd failed my mom, my dad, and myself." She looks at him. "They'd prescribed me Vicodin for my injury," she says. "I swallowed the whole bottle."

His eyes flare with empathy and something intense and indefinable that sets her heart aflutter.

"I woke up in the hospital. My dad had come home just in time and found me. After that, I got help. And so did he. It took a few more years for his sobriety to stick, but that moment got us both to see that we couldn't just push through the grief alone." She hooks her hands with his. "So if you have thoughts like that again, I want you to be able to talk to me. Or Dr. Burke. Just don't be afraid to ask for help, okay? I kind of like having you around. I mean, who else is going to make me coffee?"

He chokes on a chuckle. "You really are extraordinary, you know that?" he rasps.

She grins, "Back at ya," and meets him for a sweet kiss, soft and slow and everything. The calm after the storm.

He pulls away suddenly and her heart stumbles.

"It's just…how can you be so sure?"

Silly man. He still doesn't get it, does he?

The truth pours out of her; sloughs off her tongue—clear and plain and simple.

"Because I love you, Rick."

Chapter Text

When she was a rookie, she'd fallen for her T.O.

It was puppy love, an inappropriate infatuation born out of a need for a stable male figure in her life. She'd been drowning and he was dry land. But she never told him how she felt, too scared to cross any lines. And then she moved up and he moved out and put in his papers and that was that. He was gone. The next time she saw him, she had to arrest him. And the time after that…he had a bullet in his forehead.

Her father was sober by the time she met Will and he was the first person she had the courage to let in and open her heart to. The first person she lowered her guard for. She told him she loved him and a week later, he left for a job in Boston.

Tom told her he loved her, but she couldn't say it back.

The men she loved disappointed her and all they did was leave her.

So why not leave them first?

She constructed her walls, brick-by-brick, sealing them with mortar and trapping her heart inside, determined not to let anyone through again.

Josh never stood a chance.

The first time he said he loved her was during his proposal. Or maybe he'd said it before, but she can't remember anymore. It hadn't come up. He never pushed and she didn't push back. They existed in a static neutrality, and she was okay with it. The job came first for both of them.

True love just wasn't in the cards for her.

Until Richard Castle crashed into her life, intent on proving her wrong.

He stayed. He pushed back. He made her feel alive.

It's almost as if she's awoken from a very long sleep and now colors are brighter, food tastes better, and hope is the thing with feathers soaring within her.

So when he asks her how she can be so sure about him, the answer flows out of her with liquid ease.

"Because I love you, Rick."

He stares at her in complete and total shock.

She touches his face with two fingers when he doesn't respond.

"Castle?"

He inhales, a sharp intake of surprise, and then he's skimming his thumb over her lips in a reverent caress, eyes brimming with liquid.

"Say that again," he rasps.

She ducks her head, her cheeks pinking. "You heard me," she murmurs, suddenly shy and nervous.

"Yeah, I did," he huffs with a self-deprecating laugh, scoring his thumb over the hollow of her cheek. "I just—I need to make sure I'm not dreaming. Can you pinch me? This is actually happening, right?"

He's so fucking ridiculous.

But she pinches the soft flesh of his earlobe between two nail tips, short and quick, just to indulge him.

He gasps.

"Yeah, it's actually happening," she huffs softly. "I love you."

His jaw slacks with awe and then he's tackling her to the ground, her back hitting plush carpet with a low thump, and his mouth is on hers, rich and ripe with joy.

Laughter bubbles out of her as he kisses her anywhere he can reach—lips, face, neck—his exuberance reminiscent of a big dog enthusiastically greeting its human after a long day apart. He rips himself away at some point to catch his breath.

"One more time?" He nudges her nose with his. "For the cheap seats."

A laugh peels from her and she bookends his face with her hands, stubble scratching her palms as she gently swabs the spill of his tears.

"You are incorrigible and infuriating and a pain in the ass—"

He chokes out a chuckle.

"—and you make my job and my life a lot more fun and…" She smiles softly, "I've gotten used to you pulling my pigtails. Every day, I can't wait to see you and—"

"Can't wait to see me or the coffee?" he teases.

"Excuse me," she scoffs, miffed at the interruption. "I'm monologuing here."

He grins and kisses the tip of her nose in apology. "Sorry, carry on."

She tamps down her smile and bumps her forehead into his. "And nights with you and your family are my favorite nights. You and your daughter and your mother are kind of the best thing to ever happen to me." A wave of emotion crashes over her and her eyes water, her voice nothing but a hoarse whisper, "And I just…I think you're really amazing and I love all of you, okay?"

He marvels at her like she's a newly discovered wonder of the world and her heart spins uncontrollably, banging around the cage of her ribs like a pinball.

Say something, Writer Boy.

And then…

"Holy shit - you really…" He blossoms with a smile, the one that's lopsided and warm and crinkles his eyes with sunshine—the one that's just for her. "This is, without a doubt, the best night of my life."

Her heart takes flight and he surges into her, claiming her mouth with his, chanting, "Kate, Kate, oh, Kate, I—"

She puts a hand to his chest, suddenly stopping him.

"Do you smell smoke?"

He sniffs and they both glance toward the hearth, only to see that the clothes the writer had hung to dry on the fireplace screen have sprouted flames.

"Shit!"

He scrambles to his feet, instantly pulling her up and herding her behind him. Then he's tearing off his robe, kicking the screen down, and quickly blanketing the small conflagration with the terry cloth and like a pot on a lid, the cover of the robe successfully cuts off the oxygen supply and smothers the tiny inferno.

"Whew!" He wipes his forehead dramatically. "Disaster averted."

"That was pretty hot, Mr. FDNY," she laughs. "Might need to brush up on your fire safety though," she says, toeing the smoldering remains of his dress shirt and pants.

He puffs a light chuckle. "I actually did research in a firehouse for an arson-related story. I wasn't in the field or on calls or anything, just hung around. But I did make it into the calendar."

"Oh, yeah? What month?"

"July."

She bites her bottom lip and checks him out in his white tank undershirt, eyeing the swell of his biceps appreciatively (where have those been hiding?).

"They always put the really hot ones in the summer months."

He waves her off. "It was more of a joke thing. Think the guy who made it had a crush on me."

"So this is a habit of yours?" She arches an eyebrow and pulls his hips to hers. "Semi-stalking people in the name of research and getting them to fall in love with you?"

He laughs in disbelief.

"Are you jealous?"

She glances down, hiding her blush behind a curtain of hair, and shrugs nonchalantly. "I just wanted to see how big the club was."

"First off, there is no club. And second, there's no reason to be jealous." He arranges her hair behind her ear, curling his fingers around the soft shell, his voice soft, "You're the only muse I've ever fallen in love with."

Her eyes immediately cut to his and her pulse races.

"Say that again."

He loves me. He loves me, her heart exalts. Her Castle loves her.

He grins, eyes sparkling like radiant sapphires, deep blue and full of fire. "I'm in love with you, Kate. So, so in love with you." He cradles her face. "God, ever since you smiled at me in the hospital, I've been a total goner and I—I bring you a cup of coffee every morning just so I can see a smile on your face. I'll do anything to see you smile."

A wonderful warmth flows through her like honey, sweet and viscous, and she surges into him, kissing everywhere she can reach.

He loves me. He loves me.

When they break apart, breathless and grinning like fools, she nudges her nose with his. "One more time?" she requests softly. "For the cheap seats."

"I love you," he whispers into her lips, "I love you, I love you, I—" She shuts him up with her grin, eager for the taste of his words, giddy with them, and then he's twirling her around like a ballerina in a music box and she's laughing, her dress skirt splaying open like a flower in bloom. He slows it down eventually, pulling her close, and hums softly, "Here comes the sun, doo-doo-doo-" He twirls her out again on the last "-doo" and an unladylike yelp leaves her at the unexpected move.

He wiggles his eyebrows in challenge, as if to say your turn.

Fuck, he's adorable.

She gives in with a scrunch of her nose and grins widely as she sings back, "Here comes the sun and I say—"

He smiles radiantly as he twirls her back in.

"It's alright," they harmonize once she's in his arms again, their eyes never leaving each other.

(God, they're such saps).

She touches her mouth to his, light and sweet, as her fingers seek the hem of his undershirt.

"Wait, uh—it's…they're not very pretty," he stutters nervously.

Oh, Castle.

"Haven't you heard?" She quirks an eyebrow. "Chicks really dig scars."

The corner of his mouth lifts wryly, but he still wavers with insecurity.

She softens, "Look, if you're not ready—"

"No," he grabs her fingers. "No, I - I'm ready. I am like so, so ready." He pauses and bows his head shyly, "It's just...what happens if you don't like what you see?"

It breaks her heart a little that he keeps expecting her to reject him, as if she could ever not find his scars anything other than beautiful.

"What happens if you don't let me look?" she coaxes gently, her forehead knocking into his and her hand cupping his jaw. She tenderly brushes her thumb over his cheek, "It's gonna be alright, remember?"

He nods against her, murmuring, "Alright." And then he removes his fingers from hers and lets her slowly tug his white undershirt up his torso and over his head.

And then he guides her fingertips to one of his puckered scars (God, she can't believe he survived two shots to the chest). When she presses gently on it, he sucks in a breath.

Shit.

"Does it hurt?"

He shakes his head.

"There's a dull ache sometimes when it pulls. Moreso on cold and rainy days."

"How does it feel now?" She caresses her fingers further down and over his lobectomy scar, a slightly raised crescent-shaped thing that curves under his left pectoral and across his side body, long and pink.

"Tingly," he says, his eyes shimmering gold in the firelight. "Warm."

She traces the proof of his survival reverently, but then an old guilt resurrects without warning, scratching and clawing at her gut, and tears are gathering in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she rasps.

He braces a thumb and forefinger at her chin. "Sorry for what?"

"He jumped in front of those bullets because it was me. Because…"

Because I love you, Kate.

"Hey, hey," he soothes, thumbing saltwater from the jut of her cheekbones. "I'm glad he did, okay? I would've made the same choice if I'd been in control of my body. And I'd do it again."

"Castle," she chokes out in admonishment.

"I've got your six, Beckett," he whispers into her temple. "In this universe. And every other universe. Each and every one."

She sniffles a laugh, her affection for him magnifying tenfold.

"Each and every one, huh?"

"Each and every one," he echoes with a goofy, lovestruck smile.

And then her eyes are twinkling with mischief and she turns her back to him, playfully husking, "Is there a universe where you unzip me?"

His smile stretches wider and more crooked.

"Oh, yeah. That would definitely be this one."

As he slowly drags the tab down and the bust of her dress slips off, he buries his nose into her neck, "You're gonna kill me, Kate."

She flicks her gaze to his groin. "Don't worry, Castle," she smirks, facing him and hooking a finger in the band of his navy silk boxer shorts.

"Only the good die young."

She's draped over him afterwards, her head on his chest, and their legs inextricably intertwined.

Wow.

She'd read some old trashy tabloids ages ago that rumored his claims were on the, uh, larger side and she's thrilled to discover that the rumors are true. No one's ever filled her so completely before, so thick and hot and deep. Or been so sweet and tender. And the connection she felt was unlike any other, something almost sacred or holy. Something deep and inevitable and bigger than themselves.

Destiny.

(Jesus, he's made her all soft).

His thumb lazily strokes the tattoo of a little tiny napping panda on the crest of her hip bone.

"Not very badass I know."

Her fabulous high school friend Carly had dared her to get a tattoo when she was seventeen without her mom knowing, and well…Kate Beckett doesn't back down from a challenge.

"No, I love it. What's the little guy's name?"

She huffs a small laugh. "She does not have a name."

"Well, she has to have a name!"

"You're the novelist," she chuckles. "You tell me."

He screws his face in thought and it reminds her of a toddler, all boyish and chubby-cheeked.

"Black and white like Ying-Yang," he mutters, "Maybe Yang-Yang—no, wait!" He brightens. "Ying-Ying," he announces with relish. "That's a top-notch name for a panda. It's cute. It's adorable. Just like her." He grins and bops her nose, "And just like you, all mushy and gushy."

"You make me sound like a marshmallow," she laughs.

A lightbulb switch flicks in his eyes and he gasps in excitement,

"Oh my gosh, we should totally roast s'mores!"

He wields his marshmallow skewer like a saber.

"And just as I was about to jump—" He thrusts it forward "—BAM! There was a flash of blue light. And then the next thing I know, I'm waking up and I can't breathe." He lowers his weapon and softens his gaze. "And I saw you telling me it was going to be okay." He thumbs some hair from her eyes. "I thought you were an angel, welcoming me to heaven."

Leave it to him to turn the story of his suicide attempt into a romantic, swashbuckling adventure.

She blushes and wipes some chocolate (S'more debris) from the corner of his mouth. They're hanging out in front of the fireplace again, wearing complimentary blush pink silk robes with The Plaza emblem on the breast. She's cocooned between his legs, her back aligned to his front.

"But you don't remember anything before that? Nothing from the two days leading up to the shooting?"

He shakes his head.

"I think my alternate took over me like a parasitic alien and my consciousness was shoved to a deep and dark corner of my psyche," he explains. And then his brow lifts with a new thought, "Or maybe I existed in some sort of limbo state on another plane of existence. Ooo, that would be cool."

"Cool is not the word I would use," she chuckles. "Insane, sure. Cool, no."

"Oh, c'mon, it's proof that the multiverse is real!"

She laughs.

"Yeah, well, I still have a hard time wrapping my head around all of it."

He fixes her with a grave expression.

"But you still believe in magic, right?"

"Moreso the everyday magic of life," she nods. "You know, things that I can see and touch, like um…the green shoots that pop through the snow in February or the Flatiron building or the way that I feel when I hear Coltrane."

"I can appreciate the everyday," he concedes, "But why not live in the possible? It's what makes us grow. Coltrane wouldn't have had that saxophone if Antoine Sax hadn't imagined it."

She considers his point. And then quirks her gaze.

"Well, you know—there is one inexplicable, mysterious, and magical phenomenon that I do believe in…" She smiles and tilts her head back for a kiss as she whispers, "Us."

He grins into her lips.

"Think they got together in two months?"

She breaks away. "Our alternates?"

He nods.

She huffs a scoff, "Probably more like two years. You were what, freshly divorced? And I was even more closed off back then. It would've taken me way longer to warm up to you."

He smiles and runs a finger along the curve of her cheek. "I just wish I'd met you earlier. We could've had more time together."

"I know," she sighs and nuzzles into him. "Me, too." She stares at the fireplace for a moment. "But I think it's kind of like Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken, you know?"

"Interesting. Go on."

She continues.

"So the whole thing's about how he comes upon two paths, right? One choked by all this overgrowth and the other, grassy and well-worn and familiar. But he chooses—"

"The one less traveled by," Castle quotes.

"And that has made all the difference," she finishes.

"That was so unbelievably sexy," he growls into her neck and she pushes him off with a giggle.

"So it doesn't drive you crazy that we didn't meet at my book party? That our path was less-traveled and harder to tread?" he asks.

She grows silent as she contemplates.

"I looked up the case I got pulled onto the day were were supposed to meet."

"March 9th, 2009?"

She nods.

"The case based on your books got assigned to McNulty because Will called me to consult on a kidnapping." She tangles their fingers together. "We'd lost a boy before, another abduction case. But this time, we saved a little girl and I'm glad I was there to help." She pauses. "I think I was supposed to. And whatever path another version of ourselves traveled or tread, harder or easier—that's their story and their universe. Not ours. And I don't think we need to dwell in the if onlys. That's what would drive me crazy."

He smiles.

"I like our story."

She relaxes further into his embrace and kisses their joined hands.

"Me, too."

"Though it's weird to think your FBI Squeeze is the reason we didn't meet then."

"He's also kind of the reason we're together now." Her eyebrow curves up playfully as she twists to look up at him. "Ironic, no?"

"Don't try to sway me with sweet irony," Castle grumbles petulantly. "He's still my sworn enemy."

She laughs.

"Now who's jealous?"

"I didn't like the way he was looking at you. His eyes wandered a little too long, you know?"

"Oh, I know," she says, "He hit on me actually."

"At his own wedding? Okay now he's my arch nemesis. What a dirtbag!"

"Guess he can't stay attached to one place or one woman," she deadpans.

"I love staying attached to one woman," Castle says emphatically. "In fact, if you had to handcuff me to someone, I wouldn't mind if it was you, you know. Wherever you go, I go."

She laughs and her heart overflows with rich warmth.

"I don't think that'll be necessary, but if I ever end up handcuffed to someone, I wouldn't mind if it was you, either."

"He asked you out?" he screeches.

"The date was just a ploy to get himself back on the case," she argues.

He'd asked her for the full story with his alternate—everything that happened in the two days before he was shot. She was a little hesitant at first but decided she needed to do this. Purge everything.

Because I love you, Kate.

"But you said yes?"

"It wasn't a real date. He took me to some sports dive bar our suspect frequented. And the only reason I even said yes is because you're my celebrity crush and I was…curious."

"Really?"

"Oh, c'mon. You know I'm a fan."

"Yeah, but I didn't know how big a fan." He gasps suddenly. "Oh my god, are you a member of my fansite? Tell me, are you CastleLover1212 or CastleFreak45?"

"Anyway," she huffs, "Our killer shows up in the middle of this so-called date and we catch him. But your alternate needed to find whoever took that artifact. And he was mad that I wouldn't help him. See, in my eyes, the case was closed. Over. But he said I shouldn't call it a win. That his Kate Beckett was unrelenting in the face of anything thrown in her path. That she would want the truth and she would never compromise."

He smooths the crease between her brows with the pad of his thumb.

"My Kate Beckett is like that, too."

She smiles wanly.

"Well, it inspired me to retrace the investigation. And it was pure luck that led me to him at that warehouse the next morning when it did. Just as they were about to shoot him, I was able to get some shots off."

"And then they shot at you?"

She nods.

"And he jumped in front of me." She looks at him nervously. "And when I asked him why, he said…" She swallows, acid churning in her stomach, "He said…" But the truth lumps in her throat, lodging there (God, why was this so hard?). Fortunately, he reads the answer in her eyes.

"He told you he loved you, didn't he?" he murmurs.

She nods, welling with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, my love," he soothes, wiping under her eyes. "He sprung a hell of a thing on you while bleeding out. I'm sorry you had to deal with that all by yourself."

"You're not mad?"

"At you? Never. Him? Yes."

"What for?"

"What do you mean, what for? He so totally stole my thunder!"

She drags the back of her hand over her runny nose with a laugh. And then gently teasing, "But he didn't steal my affections." She reevaluates for a moment. "Well, he hooked me, but you're the one that reeled me in."

"So he was like my wingman, huh?" he concludes. "Guess I should thank him. You think inter-dimensional high fives are possible?"

"I'm learning anything's possible," she says with a soft laugh. "'Specially when it comes to you."

He sighs forlornly. "I'm just a little peeved he was your first impression of me."

She smiles and combs strands of his hair from his forehead. "He wasn't my first impression."

He perks up, eyes blue and curious. "He wasn't?"

"We've met before. At a book signing."

"Shut the front door!" he gasps, "When? Where?"

She laughs at his excitement."Ten years ago-ish? Union Square Barnes & Noble."

He thinks for a moment.

"Hell Hath No Fury, right?"

She nods. "I waited in line for over an hour and when I got to you, I was so nervous and tongue-tied, but I managed to tell you that my mom was your favorite author."

"Shut the front door again. Really?"

"You're my favorite, too," she admits softly.

His jaw drops. "No-effing-way."

"Yes-effing-way," she chuckles. "My mom used to love your books, and when she was killed, they were kind of the last meaningful connection I had to her. And sometimes, they were the only thing that got me through the day." She cradles his jaw. "You're kind of my hero."

"Kate," he rasps, his voice thick with emotion. His fingers curl at her nape, his palm splaying the column of her throat as he seals his forehead to hers, "You're kind of my hero, too."

She can't help but kiss him, soft and ardent, overcome by the power and depth of emotion he stirs within her. But just as the ever-present fire between them kindles into something more, he pulls away from her. "Wait, wait, wait," he says. "Finish the story."

She huffs an amused and frustrated sigh before she resumes. "Okay so I said my mom was a fan and then you asked if I was a fan, too." She pauses, biting her lip shyly. "And well...I kind of called your work cliché, not to mention—"

"Reductive," he fills in, eyes alighting with recognition. "Holy crap, that was you?"

"You remember?"

He grins devilishly.

"I never forget when a beautiful woman insults me." He thinks for a moment. "Actually, it's a Rodgers family trait. We never forget an insult, period." She puffs a giggle as his knuckles skim down her jawline in reverent wonder. "I…I can't believe you're my Union Square Girl. I've been searching forever for you."

Her heart flutters.

"You have?"

He nods sincerely.

"You were the first person to tell me something real in a long time and you made me smile… inspired me to write better. I - I kind of fell in love with you."

"You did not!"

"Did, too," he rebuts, indignant. "I kicked myself for not writing my number down and I kept hoping you'd show up at another signing. But…wow." He regards her, awestruck. "I always thought I'd recognize you if I saw you again."

"Our interaction was less than a minute and I was bundled up in winter clothes. It's also been a decade, give or take," she contends.

"I know, but still. Your eyes. Probably why they've always seemed so familiar to me. Certainly made one hell of an impression."

"So did you," she grins. "I'd had a bad day on the job, thinking I should just quit. But you made me smile and inspired me to stick with it." She pauses and ponders. "I think maybe I fell in love with you, too."

He stares at her, mesmerized. "We're so totally made for each other."

She giggles.

(She's so totally gonna marry him, isn't she?)

"And everything that I've ever done, every choice I've ever made, every terrible and wonderful thing that's ever happened to me—it's all led me to this moment, right here, with you." Tears shimmer in his eyes. "God, Kate," he rasps, "I've been waiting my whole damn life for you."

Damn, Castle.

Her grin is incandescent when she rasps in return,

"I've been waiting my whole damn life for you, too."

Chapter Text

Her fingertips dance over the crescent of his lobectomy scar.

"How about…you make me lose my breath?" he says.

"Oo, that's a good one."

(She'd lifted the ban on lung-loss jokes and puns.)

"Or you make me out of breath," he says, wiggling his eyebrows. She giggles, her brow falling onto his shoulder. She's never had pillow talk punctuated by so much laughter.

"I steal all the air from your lungs," she teases.

"Nice one!"

He lifts his hand for a high-five and she meets him in the middle for a satisfying clap of their palms.

She leans in for a kiss, smiling, but a sharp and polite double-knock on their suite door interrupts her progress.

They'd been famished after their second round of vigorous lovemaking and decided to order in. Castle got every junk item on the menu, while she'd insisted on the fruit and salad bowls.

The writer quickly swipes his mouth against hers before slipping from the silken bedsheets and grabbing the robe she'd enthusiastically ripped off him earlier.

"Oh, hey, throw me my wallet?"

She tosses him the black leather billfold from the nightstand in a graceful arc, only for him to fumble the catch. She hides her smile at his clumsiness, finding his awkward recovery and mumbling about not being a sports guy, thoroughly adorable. As he sifts inside for cash and liberates more than a few twenties for the room service tip, she notices something flutter to the ground.

She retrieves her own robe from the floor and secures the belt snugly around her waist. And when she nods that she's ready, Castle opens the door to pay the attendant.

After the food hand-off, the writer hollers a hearty thanks and rolls their feast toward the rug for another fireside picnic, while she investigates the mystery of the fallen item.

It turns out to be a folded-up square of notebook paper and as her curious fingers uncrease it, Castle reignites the gas fire with a press of a remote button and collects throw pillows for them to sit on.

His familiar neat and blocky scrawl materializes, along with the words BUCKET LIST, and…

Her heart trips and stumbles.

1. Be with Kate.

"What's that?" he asks, holding his hand out.

She flips the paper toward him.

"Be with Kate?" she says, awed. "That's your number one?"

His eyes widen in panic. "How did you—" He snatches the paper from her grasp, flushing red from embarrassment.

She bunches her legs under her and settles onto a floor cushion next to him. "When did you write this?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "Like two months ago? After you came over for dinner the first time."

He'd only been shadowing her for a week.

"That's so sweet." She cradles his face in her palms and kisses him softly, warm affection flooding her veins. "You're so sweet," she repeats, overcome. And then she pulls at the paper, gentle but insistent. "Can I read the rest, please?"

"Promise you won't make fun of me?" he pouts.

"Castle," she huffs and they play a little game of tug-of-war until she fixes him with a stern glare and orders, "Give it or I'll break your hand."

He immediately relinquishes the notebook-lined paper to her.

"You drive a hard bargain."

She grins in triumph and pecks his lips with a thank you kiss.

BUCKET LIST

1. Be with Kate

2. Raise an amazing daughter (DONE)

3. Make amends with Idina Menzel (DONE)

4. Get Hamptons house back from Patterson

5. Have one of my books made into a movie

6. Get arrested for something awesome

7. Own a cool pet

8. Convert entire apartment into blanket fort

9. Fly a rocketship

10. Get married and make it last

Oh.

Is that why…? Her heart beats fast and her eyes find his.

"You want to get married again?" she blurts out.

His face flushes.

"I know my track record might suggest otherwise, but I don't know, looking back on it now…I think I was more motivated by doing what was best for Alexis both times. I wasn't sure I could be a good enough father for her, and she deserved to have everything I didn't." He sighs. "I'm just lucky I didn't screw her up even more than I did."

Oh, Rick.

"Castle—you're an amazing dad. It's kind of one of the first things that made me fall for you. And Alexis is amazing because of you."

Tears spill from him and he chokes out her name in gratitude as his head collapses onto her chest.

She holds him to her, stroking his neck soothingly and kissing the top of his head. "And who knows, maybe third time's the charm."

He pulls back to look at her with gut-punched awe, eyes shining gold. "Yeah, could be." He smooths his thumb over the hollow of her throat. "How about you? Ever torn a picture of a wedding gown out of a magazine?"

"No," she laughs and runs a hand through his unruly hair. "But when it comes to marriage, I'm more of a 'one and done' type."

"I see," he hums thoughtfully. "Any serious candidates?"

She shrugs, nonchalant. "There's this one guy I'm considering."

He grins playfully. "Do I know him?"

"Hmm, he's this ruggedly handsome renegade." One of her palms cups his jaw, her thumb gliding over his cheekbone. "And I get lost in his big blue eyes sometimes."

He lets out a melodramatic gasp.

"Oh my god, am I going to have to duel Ryan for your hand?"

They're talking about marriage and a past version of herself would already be gone in a poof of dust like the Road Runner, but she can't help the joy that radiates throughout her, warm and light, at the thought of him waiting for her at the end of an aisle.

She didn't think she could ever have forever with someone.

She snorts a laugh, her forehead burrowing into his neck. "I think the more important question here is…" her eyes flick to the bucket list curled in other hand… "—what on earth did you do to Idina Menzel?"

He hunches his shoulders sheepishly.

"I jumped on a Macy's parade float and kind of crashed her solo performance of Let It Go. Sang along like it was a duet, which is just wrong."

"Your public intoxication arrest," she recalls.

He nods. "Alexis had left for LA earlier that summer. She said New York wasn't home anymore, and that's why she wasn't coming for Thanksgiving. So I thought it was as good a time as any to have my Ferris Bueller moment." Regret shadows his features. "But I just ended up stealing Idina's moment, you know? Ruined everyone else's day because my life felt ruined."

She circles his wrist with her fingers and squeezes in sympathy, her heart breaking for him. His lips lift into a melancholy smile.

"So how'd you make it up to her?" she probes gently.

"Mame house tickets, a fruit basket, and a sincere apology go a long way."

"Really? That worked?"

"And I said I'd promote her clothing line in my book."

"Oh my god," she realizes. "Is that why you made Gemma have a theater background and an obsession with Wicked?"

"Part of it," he chuckles. "I also didn't want to make her an exact copy of you. Plus, the winter line for Encore by Idina Menzel is the perfect look for her—effortless, chic, and sophisticated. It's a win-win."

"Wow, maybe I need some clothes from Encore by Idina Menzel." She piques her eyebrow, a small smile flirting at her lips. "Guess I'll have to remind you when my birthday's coming up."

He puts a hand to his chest in mock affront.

"Why Captain Beckett, was that a hint you just dropped?"

Her smile grows.

"Why, Mr. Castle, I do believe it was."

"Shameless," he tuts.

She giggles girlishly.

"And I'd like to remind you my birthday is in three weeks," he says, eyes twinkling. "No pressure though. I know it's a little soon, so you don't have to get me anything."

She peers at his bucket list and bites her lip, a mirthful glint in her eye.

"Maybe there's something I can give you right now."

"Oh?"

She slowly sets the paper aside and slides onto his lap in an effortless straddle and then suddenly, she slams him into the rug with his hands above his head and in her most sultry bedroom voice, she husks, "Mr. Castle, you are under arrest."

His eyes alight in understanding and he gasps in delight.

6. Get arrested for something awesome.

"On what charge, Officer?"

She nuzzles her nose with his.

"Being too damn sexy."

"Oh, this is so totally awesome," he crows. He wriggles underneath her. "And kinky."

She grins, a dazzling thing. "You have the right to remain silent—" she leans in, grinning wider.

"So shut the hell up."

His stomach growls before things really heat up and she breaks from him, laughing, while he groans in disappointment.

"I'm my own worst enemy," he grumbles as he re-ties his robe. She waves an onion ring in his face and he brightens and chomps onto it like a toddler.

She laughs again. "There's more where that came from."

They dig into the spread, which includes an array of chicken tenders, cheeseburger sliders, a large basket of beer battered fries, and a monstrous banana split sundae (it counts as healthy because it has a fruit, he claims).

She gets him to eat some greens with sweet kisses and dirty promises.

"I don't know about this rocketship one." She munches on a fry and points to number nine on his list.

9. Fly a rocketship.

"How else am I going to visit my plot on the moon?"

She smothers a giggle and he points at an item further up the list. "This one might be achievable."

5. Have one of my books made into a movie

"Oh?"

"Gina has this producer friend in LA," he explains. "She slipped an advanced copy of Frostbite to her and they're interested in buying the film option. But they want to see if we can drum up a little more buzz around my comeback first. So Paula, my publicist—she's been trying to put some interviews together. Cosmo's interested in doing a profile apparently. On both of us, actually."

"Both of us?"

"They think it's an interesting angle. A writer and his mu—"

She raises an eyebrow.

"Inspiration," he corrects. "And they like how it would be an authentic behind-the-scenes look at real police work."

She plucks the cherry from the top his sundae and pops it in her mouth, considering.

"But you don't have to be in it if you don't want to," he says in a rush. "I know it's a big ask and you're a private person."

She nods, thinking, and swallows. Then resolute, "But you're a public persona. And if we're going to be together, I have to eventually come to terms with that."

Surprise skitters over his brow and he rasps her name in wonder. "Kate."

Butterflies swarm in her ribcage.

"Though just to be clear—I don't wanna announce anything right now. I'm not ready to be thrown to the wolves just yet. And call me selfish, but I want to keep what we have together to ourselves a bit longer."

"Of course. Whatever. God, Kate. Whatever you want. As long as I get to be by your side."

She smiles.

"And I really do want to help get the word out about Frostbite. It's your best book yet and I think as many people should read it as possible."

He stares at her, rendered speechless.

"I know I'm not exactly an impartial observer, but it's my new favorite," she murmurs bashfully.

"Your opinion is the only thing that matters to me." His voice is hoarse and his eyes shimmer. "I wrote it for you. Just for you."

Her heart hammers and her pulse thumps.

"No one's ever written a book for or about me before. It's…" she searches for the right word and lands on, "...epic." Her mouth quirks impishly, "And really, really hot."

"So it's probably a good thing I have outlines for three more," he grins, mischievous.

"Really?"

"Might need to ride-along a little longer. You know…for the authenticity."

"Ah, right, the authenticity," she chuckles warmly.

"I wouldn't want it to be cliché or reductive. I'd be disappointing my number one fan."

She shakes her head, her cheeks aching with a huge, idiotic grin as she drapes her arms around his neck and brushes her lips over his.

"No, we certainly wouldn't want to disappoint your number one fan, would we?"

"After my divorce with Gina and killing off Derek, I couldn't get over my writer's block. Couldn't produce a new book. So once my contract was up, White Knight dropped me."

She drops the razor she's carefully scraping down his jawline into the bathwater.

"What?"

"Yeah, that's when I started betting on the race tracks and going to underground Triad-run poker games in Chinatown. Played against Russian mob-types and the like."

"Rick," she gasps, needless worry clenching in her chest. "You could've been killed."

The writer had suggested a bubble bath after their glutinous meal. He'd also mentioned his scars were pulling a bit and she'd been wondering what his skin felt like without the scratch of stubble.

"I think that's why I was so addicted to it. Living on the edge like that was the only thing that made me feel alive."

She frowns and asks him to be quiet as she lathers more cream on him and methodically shaves his cheeks and chin and finally, the column of his throat.

(She's not about to nick him; leave him with more scars.)

She finishes with a small sweep over his philtrum, the little valley between his nose and lips, and plants a kiss on his mouth.

"Better?" he mumbles.

She dissolves into laughter and feathers a few fingers over his newly smooth face.

"All shiny and polished."

"You make me sound like an apple."

She mimes taking a bite out of his neck.

"Just so you know, my safe word is apples."

She huffs a chuckle.

"Is that what you told the Russian Mafia?"

"Mob," he insists.

"Is there a difference?"

He ponders for a moment.

"Mafia is Italian-specific."

She rolls her eyes with a smile.

"Anyway, I lost the Hamptons house on a bad hand, but Patterson was kind enough to step in and cover my debts since I'd kind of burned through most of my savings on trips to Atlantic City and Vegas."

She stays silent as he continues.

"Alexis was still living with me at the time and she thought if she could just get me writing again, everything would be okay. So she gave me an ultimatum—write something or she was gonna move out."

"So that's what Finite Laughter was?"

He nods morosely.

"She convinced Gina things would be different. And I tried to make her happy. I tried to be enough. But then the critics lambasted what was left of my ego and she just couldn't be around me anymore. She left anyway and went to her mom after she graduated high school."

"You still supported her from afar."

"With what I had left of my finances, yeah. But I never wanted to be the parent who abandoned her."

"Rick," she chides softly. "You were depressed."

"But I could've chosen a better coping mechanism than women not much older than her. It's a wonder my mother took pity on me and moved in when she did."

Her heart breaks a little more for him. She hates seeing him so desolate and guilt-ridden.

"Your family loves you, silly. And I'm pretty sure they've forgiven you for any past mistakes you've made. They just want what's best for you."

He glances at her and something like hope flares in his gaze.

"We had our best Christmas in years while I was in recovery," he says with a wistful smile. "Alexis made sure we did all the old traditions." He caresses the ridge of her collarbone with some bubble froth. "You should've come."

"We were pretty much strangers then."

"Well, we'll just have to properly introduce you to our Winter Wonderland this year, won't we?"

But now it's her smile that falters.

"What?" he asks in concern.

She sighs. "Every winter, as soon as that chill rolls in, I'm right back there in that alley with my mom."

Instant empathy kindles in his irises.

"She was killed on January 9th and we still hadn't taken our Christmas decorations down." She fiddles with the top of a shampoo bottle on a nearby ledge. "By the time my dad and I did, it was like we were putting Christmas away forever. And we haven't opened those boxes since."

"Oh, Kate."

She inhales a shuddering breath. "So every year, my dad goes up to his cabin and ever since I became a rookie, I've taken the Christmas shift because I know that there are families out there that are celebrating together in their homes and I'm keeping watch and that is my tradition."

He brooms some wet hair from her face.

"Maybe I can keep watch with you this year?"

Her eyes widen in disbelief.

"What about your family traditions?"

He shrugs.

"We'll figure it out. Make new ones. I just want to be with you in any way I can." He maneuvers behind her and wraps his arms around her as if to emphasize his point.

Damn.

She likes making plans with him; envisioning their future together. She melts into him with a contented sigh, so in love with the strength of his embrace and the sense of safety and comfort it brings her.

"And speaking of your mom, I—"

She tenses and he pauses.

But then she encourages him with a nod.

"I, uh, was wondering something about her case..."

"Okay."

He skates a hand down her arm. She breaks out in gooseflesh at his touch.

"I know you've let it go, but it kills me that you spend every day getting answers for others while you don't get any for yourself. You're their champion, a voice for the dead, fighting for justice, but you don't have anyone fighting for you or your mom." He softens his voice. "So if you'll let me, I want to help. Be your champion."

"Help how?"

"Let me look at her file. Be a pair of fresh eyes. And I have resources, connections. People in high and low places."

"What if I don't want to know? What if I'm not ready?"

She's told him how bad she can get. How hard it was to scratch and claw herself out of that rabbit hole of darkness.

"I can wait until you feel ready," he says kindly, rubbing her arm calmingly.

All her fears crest to the surface.

"But what if we find the guy and we don't have enough to put him away? What if he cuts some deal that puts him back out on the street in ten years?"

"It's different this time. You have me," he murmurs, finger-combing her damp hair, his lips at her cheek, his voice, warm and reassuring. "And you won't have to do it alone. We can do it together." He buries his nose into her neck. "I won't let you fall down that rabbit hole and lose yourself again. And when we do find this guy, we're gonna make sure we have enough. Make them pay and make sure justice is delivered. I promise, my love."

His ferocious conviction and tender ministrations wash over her, soothing the tide of anxiety building in her chest, and she relaxes into the cove of his body, the warm water lapping gently around them.

Fuck, he really loves her, doesn't he?

"Can I think about it?"

She just wants to enjoy him. Love him. Live her life for once.

Not drag herself back into everything she's trying to get away from.

"Of course. I'm here whenever you need me."

She smiles and turns to face him, winding her arms around his neck.

He's so beautiful and he's hers.

"Right now there's only one thing I need."

"Name it."

She seals her forehead to his.

"You," she whispers, "I just need you."

"I'm too wired to sleep," she confesses as they each tug on a set of complimentary, soft, and elephant-gray sweatshirts and sweatpants. She's still recovering from round three or was it four? (Jesus, she's already lost count.) "And I don't think I could go again, stud."

He smirks.

"We could always just cuddle," he winks, his voice rough and scratchy.

"God, you sound awful."

"You've been interrogating me all night!"

She chuckles. "It's a good thing neither of us has to get up early."

She'd preemptively cleared her Monday morning and didn't have to worry about anything until the early afternoon, which is when she has a standing CompStat meeting at 1PP that takes place on the second Monday of every month.

"How about we order some tea and breakfast snacks and watch something? Rest our voices."

(They'd both been really loud and vocal.)

He perks up.

"Can I pick the movie?"

They channel surf until Castle recognizes something called When the Bough Breaks, a thriller starring Ally Walker as a State Profiler and Martin Sheen as a police captain.

It's already half way through its runtime so while sipping his tea, he catches her up on the plot in a low murmur—severed hands of young girls are being found around Houston, Texas. And the main suspect is Jordan Tomas, a former foster kid who was institutionalized at a mental hospital when he was four. The strange markings on his hands match the markings on the victim's hands. And every year on his birthdays, he has seizures, which the heroine discovers coincides with the deaths of the young girls.

"And now she's figuring out he's psychically linked to the killer."

"That's preposterous."

"It will all make sense soon. Just wait."

"Okay, but what's the title supposed to mean anyway? It doesn't seem like it fits."

"It's from that one Mother Goose nursery rhyme. Rock-a-bye baby? The second verse. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall. Down tumbles baby, cradle and all."

"Kind of dark, isn't it?"

"Most nursery rhymes are," he chuckles. "But if you take the phrase when the bough breaks just by itself, I think it means…you've reached a point of no return. Like a sapling shedding new branches to make room for stronger branches—shedding an old part of yourself. And there's no going back to the way things were before."

"I like that interpretation."

He smiles into her hair and kisses the top of her head as she snuggles closer into his side.

For days, weeks, and months, she'd yearned to be in his arms and it's like her whole body sighs against him, as if finally coming home. As if finally at peace.

Yeah, there's no going back to the way things were before.

She's in this.

All in.

She's lost in thought, her mind replaying her night with Castle and their morning redux in the shower. The trail of his mouth, his fingers, his—

"Captain Beckett?"

She straightens in her seat, refocusing her attention on Deputy Commissioner Gates. "Yes?"

"As I was saying, your precinct closure rates are stellar."

"Oh, thank you. I have a great team of detectives."

"What about that mystery writer? I heard he's a huge help," a voice snickers.

Gates narrows her eyes at the perpetrator. "Captain Remington, need I remind you-Captain Beckett rose to this rank by her very own merit, long before the aid of any civilian consultant. But if you think Mr. Castle is such an asset, I can assign him to your precinct. Maybe then your numbers would improve."

Remington has the decency to look ashamed, but the victory is short-lived when Gates follows up with, "Speaking of, how much longer is this ride-along arrangement with your writer going to last?"

"Sir?" Beckett prods.

"I know you agreed to this...unorthodox partnership, but I can't say I'm terribly comfortable with him traipsing to crime scenes. Especially after he already got shot. We can't afford any slip-ups, and we certainly don't need to give the city any more reason to slash our budgets."

"Yeah, does he really need to hang around every day for research?" someone jokes.

"He provides an out-of-the-box mindset. And he's been instrumental in cracking some of our toughest cases," she fires back.

"Oh, I'm sure that's not the only thing he provides," she hears Remington mutter. Ugh, more like Schlemington. He still hasn't gotten over her schooling him in the potato sack race at last year's police picnic. Or the fact that she turned him down a few months ago when he asked her out.

"Excuse me?" she spits, her hackles raising.

"All right, all right, let's settle down," Gates chides. "In any case, as long as nothing goes wrong, his work with the 12th is good PR. And we could use some of that. So it's in your best interest not to cause any scandal," Gates says firmly, her stare piercing, almost like she knows about the three hickeys hiding under Beckett's scarf. "Is that clear, Captain?"

Beckett flashes her a weak smile, panic spreading through her chest.

"Crystal."

"Captain Beckett, may I speak with you privately for a moment?" Gates requests.

Kate hangs back as the other captains file out of the conference room. One of her close confidants, Carmen Cruz, the only other female captain in Manhattan, taunts her with a playful jeer of, "Oooooo," acting as if Beckett's about to be taken to task by the principal.

She sticks her tongue out at Cruz and her friend winks with a smile as she shuts the door behind her.

Beckett turns to face Gates, straightening her blazer, while the elder woman calmly folds her hands together in front of her.

"You know, I had a fantastic dinner last night." She innocently cocks her head to the side. "Have you ever eaten at The Plaza?"

Beckett's stomach drops like a stone.

Oh, no.

Oh, fuck.

"Sir, I—"

Gates flips her hand up like a stop sign.

"Don't say anything," she orders. "It's not technically against the rules, but it's better if I can maintain plausible deniability." She sighs. "And quite frankly? It's none of my business." Her gaze squares. "But woman to woman? You're a great leader, excellent at your job, and no one at headquarters has a bad word to say about you. You're meant for bigger things, Captain."

The Deputy steps closer.

"But if this gets out—what happened today is going to seem like child's play. People will question your credibility. Your successes won't be seen as your own. And they're going to think you spend more time on your back than you do pursuing killers."

Gates zeroes in on her.

"So I'd like you to ask yourself…is he really worth it?"

Chapter Text

So I'd like you to ask yourself…is he really worth it?

Gates doesn't wait for an answer, leaving the room and Beckett's head spinning.

Before she can process any of it, her phone vibrates with a call. When she quickly fishes the device out of her pocket and checks the screen, it's a familiar photo—a candid shot of a raven-haired girl mid-laughter. Worry darts through her.

It's not unusual for the writer's daughter to call her, but her paranoia is at an all-time high in the wake of the Deputy's warning, the bubble of her perfect weekend popped by the sharp needle of reality.

What if this was the other shoe dropping? What if something happened to him?

Of course it was all too good to be true. Of course she's not going to get a 'happily ever after.'

Story of her life, right?

"Hey, Alexis—everything okay?" she asks, cautious.

"Yeah, great, actually. Dad said you had a meeting. Am I interrupting?"

"No, no. It just ended."

"Dad'll be thrilled to hear that. He's been running around like a nine year-old on a sugar rush ever since he got home."

Her elevated heart rate evens out and her teeth snag her bottom lip to quell her smile. "Oh?"

"The first thing he did was literally shout it from the rooftops. Variations of 'She loves me. I love her, etc.' Then after he lost his voice, he invented something called a S'morelette and weirdly…it tasted amazing. Chocolate, marshmallow, and eggs, who knew? And for the past twenty minutes, he's been playing on the drums like a maniac."

"I'm so sorry," she responds, partially contrite and partially amused, her heart melting. (She's never had someone love her so loudly before.)

"Oh my gosh, please don't be sorry!" Alexis gushes. "It's the happiest Gram and I have ever seen him, and we're just glad somebody finally made a move. Hell, we were on the verge of locking you two in a room."

Beckett's cheeks bloom with shades of pink.

"God, we're we really that bad?"

Alexis scoffs a laugh. "Why do you think there's a precinct pool betting on when you'll get together?"

"You know about that?"

"Dad keeps us in the loop on everything," the girl chirps. "Well, not everything. He says a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, but we did manage to wheedle a few details from him about last night and I wanted to say on behalf of Gram and I—we love you, too."

Fuck.

He comes as a package deal and for the first time in a long time, her cup runneth over, warm and rich and oh so wonderful. Tears choke her and she huffs out a damp chuckle, "You Castles keep making me cry."

"Welcome to the Pea Pod."

She laughs again, a wet and croak-y thing.

"I also, um, had a question I wanted to ask…" Alexis hedges.

Beckett blots the saltwater from her eyes with the sleeve of her blazer. "Yeah?"

"How do you know when you're in love?"

Oh.

Something her mom used to say comes to mind.

"All the songs make sense."

"Even this one?"

Suddenly she hears a loud and terrible banging and crashing of cymbals. Alexis must be at the top of the stairs, holding her phone out to Castle's one-man band.

"Does that really qualify as a song?" Beckett chuckles.

"Whatever it is, it's giving me a headache," the young woman says dryly.

Beckett puffs a small laugh. "Need me to take him off your hands?"

"Would you? I'm trying to write a paper and Gram is reading for a possible guest star role in Temptation Lane, but we're worried he's going to hurt himself in all the excitement if he's left alone."

"Temptation Lane? Didn't her character die?"

"You're a fan?"

"I used to watch it with my mom," Beckett says. "They're really thinking of bringing Martha back?"

"She'd be playing her evil twin."

"I, for one, would love to see that."

"Gram!" Alexis shouts, presumably with her hand over the receiver to muffle her voice. "Kate says you should go for the part!"

The cacophonous clanging in the background immediately stops. "Kate? You're talking to Kate? My Kate?" she hears faintly.

"Uh oh. Incoming," Alexis mutters.

Socked footfalls bound up the stairs and then— "Hey, how are you? How was your meeting? Win any awards for Best Captain?"

Her stomach flutters with butterflies, her heart skips a beat, and her lips unpeel into a smile.

"Look who got their voice back."

"I missed you."

(It's been all of two hours.)

"I missed you, too," she admits.

"Yeah?"

She rolls her eyes.

When is it going to sink in that she's just as obsessed with him?

"How would you like to come over for dinner later? Maybe stay the night?"

"Really? You don't need some time and space?"

She appreciates that he knows she likes her independence, but she's so sick and tired of playing games and pretending she doesn't want him. And who cares if it's practically their third date in a row? They've had more than enough time and space spent apart and she's not going to let Gates get into her head when she's finally following her heart.

"Who else is going to return my shoe to me?"

He gasps in delight. "So you did leave one of your stilettos behind on purpose." (She'd left The Plaza in her new sweats and neon green high tops.) "Now who's milking the fairytale bit?"

She grins widely, feeling warm and tingly all over.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Yeah, so, so worth it.

"You look different."

"I got some highlights."

Lanie crosses her arms, suspicious.

"That's not it." The medical examiner had demanded a visit at the morgue during her break and Beckett knew she couldn't fend her best friend off much longer. She told Castle to meet her at her apartment at six, saying she needed to run a couple errands first.

"You have a glow. I know that glow," Lanie states imperiously. Her eyes narrow in inspection. "You had sex."

When Beckett offers her a weak smile of confirmation, Lanie's eyes widen.

"Holy shit…" The M.E. 's arms fall to her side in shock. "Did you actually take my advice and have sex with Writer Boy?"

"Shhh," the captain shushes, periscoping her gaze around the autopsy room and making sure the coast is clear. (It is.) "Keep your voice down. If 1PP gets wind of this, they'll have a scandal on their hands, and—"

"A scandal, indeed. I didn't think you had it in you, girl!" Lanie squeals. "So how was it? Does he live up to the nickname?"

"What nickname?"

"You know which one. Moby D—"

"Doctor Parish," Beckett admonishes with a playful tut.

The medical examiner shoots her a look, unimpressed. "Don't I at least get a hint?

Beckett bites back a grin and shrugs coyly. "A lady doesn't kiss and tell."

"Since when?" Lanie scoffs. "C'mon. You owe me big time. Spill."

"Fine," Beckett sighs airily, as if put upon. Then she pops a mischievous eyebrow. "Call me Ishmael."

A devious grin curls at Lanie's lips.

"Oh, you need to lock him up and throw away the key."

Beckett spends the next twenty minutes recounting the highlights—their 'date' at the wedding, Remy's, and her kissing him in her doorway and him kissing her against the door. The next night and their real date…the carriage ride in the park, dinner at the boathouse, and getting caught in the rain.

"And then we got a room at The Plaza."

Lanie sighs wistfully. "It sounds so dreamy."

"It was pretty much the best night of my life."

(Definitely the best night of her life.)

Surprise flickers over the medical examiner's features. (She's not usually this effusive when it comes to her relationships.) "Yeah?"

"Yeah, he, uh, really knows how to type with his fingers and use his mouth for things other than talking."

"Oh my god. So how many times did you—?"

"I, um…" She bites her bottom lip, "...might've lost count after the third round."

"You lost…" Lanie checks her up and down. "How the hell are you still walking?"

The captain smirks and then fiddles with her fingers.

"Look, uh, it's not just mind-blowing sex." She twirls a strand of hair, nervous. "We…love each other."

Lanie rolls her eyes. "Duh. This is what I've been trying to tell you!"

Kate huffs slightly, her mouth twitching with a smile. "I'll never doubt you again."

Her best friend grins from ear to ear. "Girl, give me a hug," she says, grabbing Beckett's shoulders and pulling her in. The captain's chest fills with giddiness as she tightly squeezes the medical examiner back. They part after a moment, both of them surreptitiously pressing the ridge of their palms into damp eyes.

"I'm so happy for you, Kate. You deserve this."

Beckett's face tints rose blush while a big joyful smile spreads over her face. "Thank you."

The medical examiner nudges her shoulder. "So when's the wedding? I'd like to petition Angie for Flower Girl."

"Lanie!"

She lays a fresh bouquet of white daisies on her mother's headstone and gently feathers gloved fingers over the engraving of Qui Pro Domina Justitia Sequitur—Who for Lady Justice prosecutes.

It's a Latin phrase adopted by the Department of Justice in the 1800s as part of their official seal. They wanted to make it clear that the purpose of its institution is not to prosecute on behalf of those in power or whatever political party they happen to hail from, but rather, on behalf of justice.

This is further represented by Lady Justice, who stands guard outside the front entrance to the U.S. Supreme Court building in D.C.

Fair, impartial, and final—all symbolized by the blindfold she wears, the scales of justice she holds, and the sword she wields at her side.

Her father had bought her mother a mini statuette replica of Lady Justice as a law school graduation gift and Kate had it welded onto a metal plate in front of her mother's headstone, as if standing guard for her, the strength and power she imbues so reminiscent of her mother.

She usually only visits on the anniversary of her mother's death or when she has updates in her case, but this time, she wants to share something that isn't about her grief—something she knows her mom would've loved to hear.

Her father constantly teased his Nosy Jo for being a total gossip; always nosing in on other people's business; always eager for a good old-fashioned girl talk.

What's the 4-1-1, Bug? Any new crushes lately?

A small smile buds at her mouth at the memory.

"Mom, you're not gonna believe this."

She removes her soiled garden gloves and admires her handiwork.

Her balcony hadn't seen much action since she moved in a couple years back, after the pipes burst and flooded her old place, but she wanted to go out of her way to create something special and magical for him, just like he did for her.

So she dragged a wagon her dad had given her a while ago out of her supply closet and went to The Secret Garden, the flower and plant shop down the block, selecting the brightest springtime florals to decorate the outside space. Now it's dripping in bright pink tulips, sunny daffodils, and striking lilacs. She'd artfully arranged them in various pots and planters and strung fairy lights over the two outdoor chairs and table she'd purchased last summer but never got around to setting up.

It's not fancy or anything (certainly no boathouse), but it's something…

Something straight from the heart.

When she hops out of the shower, she has a couple texts from Castle asking what the dress code is and if he can bring anything.

Comfy casual. And just bring yourself :)

(Oh, God, he's turned her into a smiley face person.)

She dries off and jumps into a pair of her favorite jeans and throws on a purple cable knit sweater that hangs off one of her shoulders, her hair air-drying as she starts prepping chicken breast cutlets and dicing onions and cloves of garlic for a red sauce. She decided to make chicken parmesan with creamed spinach and a potato salad. (A Johanna Beckett Dinner Special.)

While a couple things simmer on the stove, she tidies and sweeps and dusts, humming along to the Coltrane record playing softly on her turntable.

But when she finds herself neurotically cleaning tiny knick-knacks and organizing her junk drawer, it hits her that she's nervous.

It's been a while since she let someone in. Since she cooked for someone.

Castle and his family never let her cook at the loft, insisting she was a guest and shouldn't have to lift a finger.

But she wants to do this for him—show him just how much he means to her.

She adds some product to her hair to make her natural curls shine more and a few light touches of makeup. He's seen her in full-armor and bare-faced, so she settles for something in between, a more relaxed look but still somewhat put-together.

Her phone buzzes with a call while she's in the middle of applying her signature eyeliner. Castle had just been texting her, saying he'd be over soon, so she assumes it's him when she swipes to answer, switches the audio to speaker-mode, and continues drawing on her eyelid.

"Hey, almost here, hot stuff?"

There's a brief pause and then a tentative, "Katie?"

She startles, her hand jerking, and the eye-liner applicator slips, inking a jagged black line down the side of her jaw.

"Dad?" she gasps. "Oh my god, I didn't mean—"

(She really should've checked Caller ID.)

"I gathered," her dad chuckles lightly, unperturbed. "Look, I was, uh, in the neighborhood and thought we could grab a bite, but if you're expecting someone…" he trails off, waiting for her to fill in the blanks and she sighs ruefully as she wipes the dark squiggle staining her skin with a wet cloth.

(Her dad would never admit it, but he's just as bad as her mom when it comes to gossip.)

"Yeah, uh…" (Oh, screw it.) "I actually have a date with Rick tonight. Rain check?"

She says it casually, like she didn't just drop a major bomb and hasn't spent weeks and weeks denying that nothing's going on between her and the writer.

"A date with Rick, huh? Does this mean I can finally meet him? Ask him his intentions?"

She bites the inside of her cheek and huffs, her tone wry.

"And that's exactly why I'm keeping you far away. It's too early for cross-examinations."

Her father sighs good-naturedly, knowing not to push further. "Well, I'd love to hear how your date goes. Is lunch at Remy's tomorrow too much to ask, Your Honor?"

She shakes her head, a goofy grin springing to her lips.

"That, I think I can allow, Counselor."

After covering the spinach and salad bowls with tinfoil, she puts the several pieces of sautéed breaded chicken topped with red sauce and parmesan cheese into the oven and sets a fifteen minute timer.

Just as she finishes turning the dial, there's a cheerful knock on her door.

Her pulse races.

(He's early again.)

She inhales a quick breath, primps her hair, and adjusts her sweater before swinging the door open, only to immediately burst out laughing at the sight of what must be ten heart-shaped balloons.

"What's all this?" she chuckles.

Castle pokes his head through the helium melee with a sheepish grin.

"Happy Valentine's Day…three weeks late?"

She lifts an eyebrow. "Or forty-nine weeks early?"

"They were on sale," he explains, grimacing in apology. "Too much?"

She shakes her head. (Sure it's a little over-the-top, but it's from him.) Her palm fits to his jaw.

"Never too much," she murmurs as she rises on her toes to kiss him.

She's been craving his touch all afternoon, and oh, God, his lips are like nectar and she drinks deeply from him, hands curling around his ears. Fuck, she needs him closer. So much closer. But when she reaches for him, something hard and pointy pokes her in the stomach. She yanks back to discover the culprit—a white pizza box.

She plucks it from his grasp. "What's this?"

"Oh, uh—can I?" he motions inside and she nods while giving him room to enter. He squishes through the doorway, balloons banging against each other as she places the box on the island table countertop.

"Have you no faith in my cooking?"

"No, no." A balloon collides into his face. "Hold on, I mean—yes, I do have faith." He ties the balloons off on a counter stool leg. "It smells fantastic, by the way." He shoves his hands into his pockets. "I just, uh, figured we might need a second meal later on…" A deep blush overtakes his face. "And well, these are for you, too."

He turns around and reveals a sleek Tumi backpack with a bouquet of flowers tucked into the side pocket sleeve. Her heart flutters. She takes the array of roses, a lush rainbow of pastel pinks, pale yellows, and soft oranges, and the cellophane wrapping crinkles as she buries her nose in them.

Damn.

He's just so sweet and thoughtful and fucking perfect.

"Thank you," she murmurs softly. "They're stunning."

He faces her again and winks. "Just like you."

She rolls her eyes and huffs a breath, pink dusting her cheekbones. "You really didn't have to bring anything." His sunflowers and daisies from the night before are on proud display in the middle of her coffee table.

"It's my first official visit, of course I wasn't going to show up empty-handed!" he protests, wrestling his backpack from his shoulders. She tamps down a grin until a familiar yellow, green, and red logo on the pizza box pops out at her.

"Wait, this is Stefano's?" Her grin grows wide. "You went across the bridge?"

(Stupid romantic.)

His bag thumps to the ground. "And it's fresh tomato and basil. One of your favorites," he says, puffing out his chest.

It's so cute and endearing that he takes pride in remembering all her favorite things. She kisses his cheek in gratitude.

"Make yourself at home," she directs. "Food still needs a little bit." She grabs a vase from one of her cabinets and fills it with water from the kitchen sink while he shucks his coat and ventures into the living room, examining the space with wide-eyed wonder.

"Wow, I feel like Alfred in the Batcave for the first time. Except this is a lot more boho-chic. I didn't exactly peg you for someone with such an eccentric style."

"Don't you know by now?" she calls out, her back turned as she fluffs some of the rose petals and admires the variety of colors. "I have a taste for the weird and freaky."

He comes up behind her, his hands settling on her hips and his chin on her shoulder.

"Does that make me Beckett-flavored?"

A stupid grin crooks at her mouth and she turns in his arms, hers looping around his neck.

"Lemme double-check."

She kisses him, a proper one this time, hot and hungry and moaning into him. Mhhm. Yup. That's the stuff. Her eager tongue swipes along the seam of his mouth, seeking access. He grants it to her and ups the ante by hiking her onto the counter and nudging her thighs open.

"How long 'til everything's ready?" he murmurs into the column of her neck, his hands gliding under her sweater and up her sides, goosebumps erupting on her skin.

When he discovers she's not wearing a bra and his thumbs graze the underside of her breasts, she arches into him with a gasp, her legs hooking around his waist and clutching him to her. God, he feels amazing. (Why haven't they been doing this the whole time?)

"Uh, fourteen minutes," she gets out in between breaths, her core tightening and arousal rushing through her bloodstream, heat licking everywhere.

He picks her up without warning and heads toward the couch, carrying her like she weighs nothing.

Oh, fuck.

As he lowers her onto the cushions and his fingers slip past the barrier of her jeans, he husks,

"I can work with that."

The warm evening breeze ruffles the ends of her hair, now scooped into a low messy bun by a claw clip.

When she'd led him out onto the balcony, he'd marveled at the set-up, saying it was magical and enchanting and really fucking cool. He'd also raved about the food, telling her how delicious it was and how much he appreciated the effort she put into everything. Especially since no one's done something like this for him before.

"Well, it's your first official visit, of course I had to do something special," she jokes.

"Kate, I mean it." He gathers her hand in his and brushes his thumb over her knuckles. "These past five years or so and…maybe even before that, most of the people in my life, well, they never really wanted me for me." He tightens his grip around hers with a light squeeze. "But with you—" his voice cracks, "God, Kate—you make me feel so wanted and loved."

Tears crowd the corner of her eyes.

(Damn it, Castle.)

She squeezes his hand back, a lump forming in her throat. "Least I can do, right?" she manages.

He chokes on a laugh and uses his free hand to wipe at his own tears.

"I…I finally feel like I have a true friend and partner. And it's like there's this huge weight off my chest and I can actually breathe properly for the first time in forever."

She ducks her head shyly, her teeth scraping her lower lip.

"It's the same for me."

"Yeah?"

She nods.

"Except I can breathe even better. You know, because I have full lung capacity."

He gasps in faux-offense.

"Why Katherine Beckett, I never."

She grins like a fool.

"Richard Castle, One Lobe Short."

"I take it all back," he says, eyes sparkling with mirth. "You're a monster."

She giggles and kisses the ridge of his knuckles.

"Would a monster have gotten you the Raspberry Supreme Cheesecake from Junior's for dessert?"

This time, he gasps in excitement.

"You went across the bridge?"

(She picked it up on her way back from visiting her mom at the Cypress Hills Cemetery on the westside of Brooklyn.)

She wiggles her eyebrows enticingly.

"And it has extra whipped cream."

"What precinct is this Schlemington at?" he growls.

"Why?" She sets her glass of Chianti next to her emptied plate and crosses her arms. "Gonna go defend my honor?"

He bristles. "No."

She raises an eyebrow, as if to say Oh, really?

He pierces a stray raspberry with his fork tine. "A fist to to the face might do him some good."

(Sweet idiot.)

"Don't think that'll help with the whole 'they-think-we're sleeping-together' thing."

He deflates with a sullen sigh.

"I'm sorry. I never wanted people to question your integrity because of me. Or put your job in jeopardy." His fork clatters onto his plate as his head falls into his hands. "God, Kate, wouldn't you be better off without me?"

Amusement tugs at the corner of her mouth. "You really are your mother's son."

His head lifts.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She rises from her seat and clears their plates from the table.

"You don't have to be so melodramatic," she says. "I've dealt with sexist crap my entire career and this is just par for the course." She bumps her hip to keep the balcony door open as he gathers their wine glasses and follows her inside.

"I just…I hate that you have to deal with it at all," he mopes.

They tread carefully down the white-painted brick steps that lead into her kitchen. (She really should get a railing.)

"Maybe I should take a step back," he suggests. "Stop shadowing you for a bit and let the rumor mill die out. I still have final edits to work on for Frostbite. We can say I need to focus on my writing."

She pauses in front of the sink, releasing the dirty dishes into the ceramic basin. Step back? She doesn't want him to leave. He can't. They're a team. He's her partner. God, doesn't he know he makes everything better by just being there?

She opens her mouth to tell him, to make sure he knows, but—

"There's also all this book promo stuff Gina and Paula want me to do," he rambles on, "which reminds me—they called about the Cosmo article earlier."

She turns to him.

"Oh?"

"Apparently Cosmo's cover story dropped out last-minute and we're on the top of their shortlist to replace them. But maybe…" he sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Maybe I should just call it off altogether."

She tenses.

"Call it off? Why?"

"I don't want to drag you down by association."

She frowns. She hates that he thinks so little of himself. He was so determined the other night to prove himself to everyone, to re-establish himself and now…

"What happened to telling them Richard Castle, Mystery Novelist is back?" she argues fiercely.

Surprise flickers across his features.

"I…"

She curls a hand around his bicep and smooths the other over his chest. He's wearing her favorite navy blue cashmere sweater. (It brings out his eyes and it's sinfully soft.)

"Look, maybe this is a good thing."

"What?"

She folds the sleeve material between her fingers.

"We can't stop people from speculating. I mean, they're going to speculate no matter what, right?"

He regards her with caution, not sure where she's heading with this.

"Right."

She glances up at him.

"So maybe we use this Cosmo cover to our advantage. You know, push the narrative that we're co-workers and nothing more. It'll make the suits at 1PP happy—it's hard for the NYPD to get good press in a magazine that people actually read. And it'll get Gates off my back for now. Two birds. One stone."

He processes her pitch.

"So what you're saying is…the cover will give us some cover."

"Yeah," she smiles. "And before we make it official to the wider public, we just tell the people who matter to us. Keep it need-to know."

His eyes brighten.

"Need-to-know. I like it. Like we're classified."

She grins teasingly. "Top Secret."

But then his smile falters and doubt furrows his brow.

"You're really okay with this? You know denying that we're in a relationship will only make them think it's true, right?"

"Well, since it is true, it wouldn't be the worst thing to have people think you're romantically involved. And I've had stuff written about me before."

"Yeah, but this isn't the crime blotter, Kate. Cosmo's digital circulation is in the tens of millions." He gently tucks a section of her hair behind her ear. "Sure you want to subject yourself to that kind of scrutiny?"

She arches an eyebrow. "Think I can't handle the big leagues?"

She puts killers behind bars. What's a little press attention?

"No, I—"

She palms his cheek. "Whatever happens, it's worth it, 'kay?"

His gawks at her, awestruck.

She winds her arms around his neck. "Besides, won't the whole 'will-they, won't-they' thing help sell more books?"

He pulls her waist to his, a huge and silly grin stretching over his mouth.

"You are positively diabolical. I didn't take you for such a schemer and trickster."

She scoffs in faux-offense. "Scheming and trickery are foundational tenets of the Beckett household. My mom was exceptional at pranks. Passed down from her dad—my grandfather. He was an amateur magician. You would've liked him." She plays with some unruly strands of his hair. "In fact, you remind me of him a little."

"I'm flattered," he smiles. "Know any good tricks?"

"I do this one thing," she says, a wicked gleam in her eye as she hooks a finger over the lip of his jeans and tugs him toward her bedroom.

"With ice cubes."

He presses soft kisses down her spine, giving each vertebrae special attention. She shivers from the tenderness.

"Cold?"

She shakes her head.

He smirks and traces his nose upward into the valley between her shoulder blades, slow and tortuous and oo, that tickles!, before his breath washes over her neck and he's whispering in her ear, "Sure you don't need me to warm you up, Captain? I've been told I'm pretty hot stuff."

She groans a laugh and pushes him away.

"What? Too cheesy?"

She shakes her head again. "I need to tell you something, but you have to promise not to laugh."

"Yeah, sure. Promise," he says hurriedly, concern rippling in his gaze. "What is it?"

She recounts the mishap with her dad on the phone.

The writer immediately dissolves into laughter.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he says, trying to catch his breath. "I owe you a soda or something. Oh, man, I wish I could've seen the look on your face."

She huffs, reddening with embarrassment.

"Imagine if Alexis called you that by accident."

The smile slides off his face. "And now you've ruined it." He narrows his eyes at her. "So not fair."

She parses out a 'that's-what-you-get' smile, smug and triumphant.

"I prefer Sprite or Diet Coke."

He chuckles and kisses her. "But wait—" he pulls back. "Does this mean I can finally meet your dad?"

He's been begging to have him over at the loft, but she knew that if he'd met her dad earlier, she'd have to face her feelings for him one way or another and she just hadn't been ready yet.

"I want you to," she says, "But maybe we let the dust settle first? Give it a couple days, at least."

He nods, thinking.

"Hey, you know what? Alexis is bringing her new beau, George, over on Friday. Why doesn't your dad join? It can be like a 'meet-the-parents' double-date."

"Alexis has a new beau?"

"She's been very secretive about it," he says, miffed.

She thinks of the girl asking her about love and almost mentions it to him but ultimately decides against it, not wanting to betray the young woman's confidence.

"Guess we'll find out on Friday then."

"Really?"

She likes the idea of not having the focus entirely on her or her dad. It'll be less pressure. And she doesn't care if it's too fast or too soon. This is the diving in part, right?

She rakes a hand through his hair, smiling fondly.

"Yes, really." And then she shifts and easily straddles him, sheets falling away. "Now where were we?"

He claps a hand over his mouth to stop himself mid-squeal.

"What?" she says, walking out of the bathroom in a silk lingerie pajama set, her teeth freshly brushed.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed in a soft cotton gray shirt and a pair of black drawstring shorts and flips his phone toward her, showing her an image on the screen.

"You used to model?" he squeaks.

Her mouth drops as she stares at a glossy photo of herself in a preppy sports outfit flaunting a tennis racket at an awkward angle.

"How the hell do you have that?"

"The Cosmo people. They were doing background research on you and sent it to Paula."

Panic sets in and her eyes widen. (Oh my god, oh my god.) "They're not going to feature it, are they?"

"No, no, not at all," he assures her. He looks at it again, smiling with affection. (God, she's never going to live this down.) "But they totally should. You're adorable."

She narrows her eyes at him.

"I was seventeen and I thought modeling for the summer would be an easier way to make money than waitressing, okay?"

"I just can't believe I'm dating a model." He sets his phone on the nightstand and reaches for her, tugging her between the vee of his legs and taking in her lingerie. "A really, really hot model."

She smirks.

"Damn straight."

Just as she's about to kiss him, his phone pings with an alert.

The writer sighs.

"I should probably get that. One second."

He quickly retrieves his cell and rapidly skims through his email.

"Okay so Paula's asking if you want them to source some outfits for you. Or if you have something you'd like to wear. And crap—they want to do it tomorrow. In a block of two hours." He looks up at her, wary. "Does that work?"

She's been sporadically in touch with Ry and Espo throughout the day since they've been running point for her. Things have been slow and they've mostly been dealing with paperwork from their last case and trial prep for another.

"It should," she replies, scooping her own phone from the nightstand and checking her calendar. "Let's say ten to twelve? That'll give me time to catch up in the morning and brief everyone."

"Do you need approval from 1PP or anything?"

She shakes her head. "My precinct. My purview."

"Nice."

"But forward me the confirmation details when you get them? I'll loop in Montgomery and Gates. Keep them apprised." She drops her phone back down. "And tell Paula I'll wear something of my own."

He drafts a reply and sends it off with a whoosh. Then he silences his device and puts it aside, eyes traveling over her.

"Oh, yeah? What kind of outfit do you have in mind?"

"What do you think of this one?"

She poses for him in a sheer floral blouse and slim charcoal slacks.

"Mmm…sexy."

"Sexy? What do you mean by sexy?"

"I mean…well, I mean sexy. Yeah. What's wrong with sexy?"

"My bosses are gonna see this. I'm supposed to look normal," she huffs in frustration, removing the blouse and selecting another top from her armoire. A black turtleneck.

"What about this one?" she asks, adjusting the garment around her throat.

He studies closely, contemplating with a hand under his chin.

"Mmm…no."

"What? Too conservative?"

"It's just not saying 'Captain,' you know? No pizzazz."

No pizzazz?

She sighs in annoyance and turns to change, only to stop mid-turn. Something feels off…she peers at him, suspect.

"You just want me to take my shirt off again, don't you?"

He confesses straightaway.

"And your pants. I love watching you do that little shimmy."

She bites down on a smile.

"Like this?"

She unbuttons her slacks and wiggles her hips as they slope down her legs.

He stares unabashedly, completely captivated. "Uh huh," he says dumbly.

She scoffs a chuckle of disbelief just before launching the pants smack dab into his face. "Perv."

"Hey!" he cries out, getting tangled in the material.

"Turnabout's fair play," she teases, grabbing another ensemble off a hangar and retreating to the bathroom. When she emerges a couple minutes later in her powder blue pencil dress and matching blazer, his boyish pout instantly vanishes and desire darkens his eyes into an inky black.

"Oh, you definitely can't wear that."

"What? It's perfect. Professional with some pizazz and it's a little sexy."

"A little?" he chokes. "I won't be able to keep my hands off you. God, the first time you wore that...what was it, like a month ago? Anyway, I had to leave early. I could barely control myself."

"That's why you left early?"

His gaze travels over her, rich with lust, his voice hoarse with it. "All I wanted to do was tear it off your body."

She cocks an eyebrow and a mischievous grin.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" she says, low and smoky, arousal pooling in her belly; a pleasant heat sparking in her veins.

"No time like the present."

The soft rush of water wakes her in the middle of the night.

At first, she thinks Castle must've gone to the bathroom to grab a drink from the faucet, but as she swims to full consciousness, she hears a familiar creak of pipes and realizes the shower's running.

She slips from the bed and unhooks her black silk robe from the back of the bathroom door and belts it on before cracking the door open.

Steam billows over her, the air damp and muggy with it, water droplets clinging to her face like fresh morning dew. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, but when they do, she spots the writer hunched over in her clawfoot tub, his head between his knees as a viscous stream of scalding hot water barrels from the shower head and onto his back, his skin all shiny and red and raw from the assault.

Immediate concern and confusion clench her gut and she instinctively lurches toward him, quickly turning the spigot off. Without the noise, she hears the sobs tearing from his throat and wracking his frame.

She has no idea why he's in so much pain, but she wants to make it stop; make it better.

She nimbly snags a towel from the nearby rack, climbs into the tub in front of him, and gingerly wraps it around his shoulders.

He doesn't react and she's not sure he's noticed her yet.

"Rick?" she prompts gently.

His head snaps up, his face bleary with tears.

"What happened? What's wrong?" she interrogates anxiously.

His voice splinters. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"You - you got shot," he hiccups. "Too mu - much blood. Could - couldn't save you."

Oh, Rick.

Her heart fractures and she surges into him, her body folding into the empty spaces around him as she envelopes him in her arms. "Hey, no. I'm here. 'M here, love." He buries his face in the hollow of her neck and clings to her tightly. "It was just a bad dream. I'm okay and I love you. So so much," she soothes.

Another sob rattles through him. But there's relief in it. A last gasp of sorts.

He eventually calms, his heartbeat slowing and syncing up with hers. Once he quiets completely, she whispers, "Why didn't you wake me?"

"Didn't want to scare you," he murmurs into her skin. "Thought I could deal with it on my own. Thought the hot water would remind me that I'm here. That this is real."

"This is real." She strokes the baby hairs at his nape. "And you don't have to do it on your own anymore." His head rises and she meets his red-rimmed gaze with a soft expression. "Don't you know by now?" Her palms bracket his jaw and her forehead falls into his. "We're better off together."

He offers her a weak smile and brushes his thumb over her chin. "I love you, too. So so much."

Her chest spills with warmth and she kisses the tip of his thumb. He sighs, eyes fluttering shut.

"I think I'm terrified that this is all too good to be true, like it's all one big beautiful illusion that can shatter like glass at any moment. What if something bad happens? What if I lose you?" he rasps.

She puffs a wry chuckle.

His eyes open. "What's so funny?"

"I had pretty much all those same thoughts earlier," she says with a huff of irony. "God, Rick, I'm just as terrified." She skates her fingertips over his lips. "But maybe we don't let the fear rule us. Maybe we just…"

"Figure it out together?" he supplies.

"Yeah," she says with a slow grin. "Figure it out together."

He smiles at her, warm and familiar and lopsided.

"And a smile. Good," she murmurs.

He wipes his nose, sniffling. "Tonight was so perfect and I totally ruined it."

"Didn't ruin anything," she insists, caressing tear-tracks from his face with the pads of her thumbs. "Just glad you're okay."

His stomach grumbles then, loud and gnawing.

"As it just so happens, I have some pizza in the fridge," she says, hiking an eyebrow in challenge. "Feel like a slice?"

He beams at her, wide and bright, washed clean of any shadow of doubt.

"I could eat."

Chapter Text

She arches her back, stretching languorously in the gray-dawn wash of morning light, a satisfied smirk on her face, her body lusciously sore and marked in love bites. Bedsheets slip away and cool air hits her skin. She shivers, rubbing at the breakout of goosebumps on her biceps, missing the warmth of her partner, his side of the bed curiously empty.

After a few slices of reheated pizza and plotting out possible answers for their Cosmo interview, she'd initiated another round, slow and exploratory, her mouth paying devotion to every inch of him, tracing his scars with reverence and whispering love into his skin. She's never been so tender with someone. Never had such an intense or deep connection; experienced such vulnerability.

He wouldn't just leave after that…would he?

As she picks up the pile of pooled silk that is her discarded robe and slides it on, her mind whirring and her heart clenching, she hears the cacophonous clanging of pots and pans. Oh, thank God. She pads down the hall and into the kitchen, twisting her sex-tousled curls into a braid, and finds the writer in a pair of checkered boxers, his top half deliciously bare, and his head buried in the fridge.

She leans over the island counter, propping on her elbows, admiring the view; the ripple of his back muscles, the strong lines of his broad shoulders, the scrumptious swell of his ass. He roots around the shelves with a cheerful whistle. She smiles, hopelessly enamored. And when he finally turns toward her, a plastic carton of fresh fruit in hand, he startles. Yelps a little.

She arches an eyebrow in amusement. "Hey there - you okay, Big Guy?"

He lets out a slight huff. A slightly abashed grin. And sets a mix of strawberries and blueberries in front of her. "Never better." Then he gestures at a breakfast tray. "Was just gonna bring this to you." She looks down and her heart immediately turns to mush. The tray includes a stack of waffles with various fruits arranged into a damn smiley face, a freshly cut rose stem, and shut the front door… her missing heel. The one she left behind. Sweet, adorable dork. (He really is her Prince Charming.)

"How did you—? I don't own a waffle-maker."

"Oh, I brought my travel-sized one from home."

She stares at him in disbelief. "You brought—"

Her coffee-maker beeps and he perks up. "Coffee's brewed." His fingers curl around the pot handle and he fills a mug. "I think your filter's broken though. I'll order you a new one later."

She blushes. "Looks like you thought of everything."

He snaps his fingers—"Except the paper."

He moves for the door, but she catches him by the waist and pulls him close instead. "Don't care about the paper." She lifts on her toes, stealing a kiss. Hmm. So good. God, it feels incredible to be able to do this. Have this. Him. When they eventually part, she combs a hand through his hair fluff, her voice a soft husk, "Good morning, beautiful."

"You're stealing my lines again," he murmurs.

She snuffles a laugh into his lips and pats the stool still festooned with heart balloons, a throne of sorts. "Take a seat. I won't be able to eat all this by myself."

"Hold on, I also made this for you." He grabs a ceramic bowl from beside the microwave and sits next to her. "In case you wanted something healthy." It's a serving of oatmeal sprinkled with chocolate chips and cinnamon powder. "I added a little Castle-flavor. Hope that's okay."

She scoops a bite with a spoon he passes to her and chews slowly, grinning at him, so fucking happy. It's amazing. She usually eats her oatmeal pretty bland and so hot that it burns her tongue. Always rushing out the door. But this tastes… perfectly warm. And sweet and sugary, balanced by a nice hit of dark and bitter chocolate—flavor country.

He watches her intently. "Too hot? Too cold?"

She smooths the wrinkle of concern from his brow with a gentle press of her thumb. "No, it's…" And kisses him again with a soft peck. "Just right."

"Rick?"

She treads into the living room, tucking in her shirt. She'd kicked him out of the bathroom after their steamy and orgasmic shower, so she could get ready and do her hair and make-up. Luckily, her neck hickeys had faded enough. And it didn't take much foundation to cover the remnants.

He's inspecting the bookshelf full of his novels. (Of course he is.) "You really are a fan."

He said he was gonna clean the mess he made in the kitchen, but it seems he got about halfway done before something else pulled his focus. Typical.

"And you really have the attention span of a cocker spaniel," she huffs. "We're gonna be late. You're not even dressed."

"I was gonna head back home to change and meet you at the precinct at ten. I didn't bring anything photoshoot-worthy."

She checks her watch. Half past eight. "Yeah, okay. That works." Probably be easier to brief everyone without him distracting her anyway.

"You look gorgeous, by the way."

Her chest warms and her face flushes. She'd gone for a white button-up, navy slacks, and black booties with a spiked heel. Something classic with a little edge.

"Right amount of sexy?"

He assesses her with a wolfish grin. "Might want to pop one more button just in case."

She shoots him a sultry look and does just that, letting her bra peek through.

He chuckles darkly, strides toward her, and drapes his mouth over hers, hot and eager. She groans, winding her arms around his neck as he walks her backwards, toward the nearest surface. They don't have time for this and he's gonna ruin her curls and oh, God, his tongue is doing dirty tricks and she doesn't care anymore.

She digs her nails into him, grasping for more purchase, but then they crash into something and a bunch of heart balloons are floating up and away and bumping into her ceiling, untethered from their moor.

Castle grimaces in that cute way of his, sheepish and apologetic, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Love is in the air?"

She snorts, knocking her forehead into his shoulder. Such a cheeseball.

"I'll get them down," he entreats. "And finish cleaning."

She breaks from him, re-buttoning her top, and reaches for a coat on a nearby stand. "Just don't hurt yourself. And lock up when you leave, please?" She grabs her work bag. Slings it over her shoulder. "The spare key is on the rack by the door."

"Wait, wait, wait. You forgot something."

He hands her a to-go cup and kisses her cheek. Her heart somersaults. It feels so natural, like they've been doing this forever. Could do this forever.

"Castle, remember - act normal. And when we're in public, you can't look at me like you've seen me naked. Got it?"

He grins, all too mischievous. "Got it."

She sneaks another kiss from him and playfully pinches his ass.

His jaw drops. "Did you just goose me?"

She winks and blows him a final kiss as she exits.

"See you later, hot stuff."

The Cosmo team sets up in the interview room, shoving couches off to the side and rigging light stands. They'll need another ten minutes or so before any picture-taking, so she covertly steals Castle away and nods at the boys in the bullpen, motioning them into her office.

"Quite the production out there," Ryan comments as she starts drawing the blinds.

"You sure they just want you two? I'm happy to fill in for any background needs." Esposito flexes his biceps. "Wouldn't want anyone missing out on these."

She rolls her eyes. "Sit, please," she says, indicating her couch. They comply, while she perches on her desk across from them. Castle wriggles the door handle to make sure it's locked and double-checks all the blinds, ensuring they're completely closed.

Her detectives glance at each other, eyebrows raised. "Something wrong?" Espo asks.

"We - um, have something to tell you," Castle says, perching beside her.

"Sounds serious," says Ryan.

More point-blank, Espo asks, "Are Mom and Dad breaking up?"

"Uh no," she says. "The opposite, actually."

"So you're…getting together?" the Latino detective surmises with a perplexed expression.

Ryan frowns in confusion. "Hold on - aren't you already together?"

"Yeah, are you telling us you haven't been dating this entire time?" Espo tacks on.

She and Castle share a look. Odd. Not what she expected… it's almost as if they're playing dumb on purpose. And then it hits her—

"Lanie told you, didn't she?"

"To be fair, she told me I wasn't allowed to tell anyone," Espo says. "And I didn't get any details."

"So naturally, you told your partner first thing," Beckett deadpans.

"I haven't said anything to anyone," Ryan preens. "I'm a vault."

"And we'd appreciate it if you could keep it that way," Castle says.

"At least, for now," she adds.

They nod, a chorus of anything for you and we got your back. And then they're erupting into a series of congratulations, high-fiving the both of them and feeding the birds with Castle.

"Okay, okay. That's enough now."

Ryan stuffs his hands into his pockets, casual-like. "So, uh - who made the first move?"

"Why's it matter?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "No reason. Just curious."

No way. She smells bullshit. "Riiight. So it wouldn't have anything to do with a precinct-wide bet?"

"Bet? What bet?" Espo lets out an over-exaggerated scoff. "No idea what you're talkin' about, boss."

"Yeah, whatever you've heard, you've been woefully misinformed," Ryan insists.

"How much?"

"What?"

"How. Much."

No response, both of them stone-walling.

"Do you two want permanent desk duty? Cause I can make that happen."

Ryan caves. "The bet was on whoever made the first move."

"Dude!"

"What? Word got around about your little wedding date. People figured something might happen," the Irish detective explains.

Espo sighs. "Four grand on Castle. Fifteen hundred on you."

"Uh huh." She pins her gaze on them. "Who'd you put your money on?"

"We, um…" Ryan looks at Espo. The Latino detective shrugs. "We'd rather not say."

"Oh my god, you bet against me, didn't you?" She turns to Castle. "Can you believe that? They bet against me."

He tuts in mock disdain. "Can't trust anyone these days."

She faces forward again, only to spot the writer give them a thumbs up in her periphery.

Oh, that is just—

She lunges, grabbing him by the nose, and yanks him toward the couch, while he screeches, "A-A-Apples! Apples!"

She releases him and barks, "Sit!" And he squishes in between the boys as she puts her hands on her hips. "For your information, I made the first move."

"C'mon - seriously?!" Ryan protests.

Espo raises a hand between him and Castle. "Bro, I can't even look at you right now."

Ryan crosses his arms. An offended huff. "We were rooting for you."

"Are you done?"

They quiet.

She paces in front of them like an army general. "Now here's what's going to happen…you two knuckleheads are going to inform anyone involved in this little bet that we found out about it and there's nothing to tell - Castle and I are still just friends. And as such, you're going to take all that money and donate it to the Widows and Orphans fund." She rounds on the writer. "And you're going to match their donation." She lifts her eyebrows for emphasis. "Got that?"

They mumble a series of yes, ma'ams and you got it, boss.

"Great. Anyone have anything else they'd like to share?"

"Actually, yes." Ryan maneuvers awkwardly as he extracts something from inside his jacket pocket—a small velvet box. He cracks it open toward Castle, revealing an elegant diamond ring shimmering within.

Castle puts a hand to his chest like a shy Southern Belle. "Ryan, I don't know what to say. I mean, I'm honored but—"

"Oh, c'mon. It's nice, right?"

"I told him it was nice, but he doesn't trust my opinion," Espo grumbles.

"It's beautiful, Ryan. Jenny's a lucky girl," she says, smiling.

"I know it's kind of fast, but I lost her once. And I don't want to make the same mistake again; waste any more time."

"So how you gonna pop the question? Hot air balloon? Skywriter? JumboTron?" Castle asks.

"I - I thought I'd just ask."

"No, no, look. You can't just ask. You gotta make a statement, it's gotta be big," the writer insists.

"Actually, most girls prefer something a little more intimate," she counters.

"What, so he's just supposed to be boring—" He grabs the ring box from Ryan and gets down on one knee in front of her, "—and ask, Will you marry me?"

It's a farce. A way to prove his point. But the irony is… this is exactly the kind of proposal she wants. Simple and earnest—straight from the heart. (Except maybe without the boys there.)

And now, this is the part where she's supposed to jokingly reject him, skewer him with a scathing quip, but for a brief moment, with his eyes locked on hers (those damn fathomless blue eyes), it feels real. Like he's sincerely asking. Her pulse jumps and her heart ricochets.

But a knock on the door saves her from having to answer, which she's thankful for. Because it probably saved her saying something incredibly stupid...something like yes.

"So - of all the precincts, in all the city, he just walked into yours," asks Kristina Cottera, their interviewer, a buxom dark-haired beauty who'd given her partner several over-familiar cheek kisses upon their initial introduction.

Paula had muttered something under her breath about "The Barracuda" and Beckett's stomach had curdled, wondering how and why the reporter had earned that particular nickname.

"It was fate," Castle says with a megawatt smile.

"He believes everything is a sign from the universe," Beckett says flatly.

Gates sits in a back corner, observing, next to Gina and Paula, who occasionally look up from their phones. The Deputy had greeted her earlier with an arched eyebrow and quiet murmur of, "Doubling down, are we?"

And now she's questioning why she agreed to any of this, the whole thing feeling like a set-up, and she—a lamb to the slaughter.

"But you agreed to it… this unorthodox partnership?" Kristina asks her.

"Yeah, uh... " Stick to the facts. "He had intel on a case we were working on. The death of a Swiss national and a stolen briefcase," Beckett replies.

Castle picks up her story thread with ease. (Just like they practiced.) "I'd been researching ancient artifacts for a story idea. An Indiana Jones adventure-type thing. And I just so happened to stumble across an underground network of criminals trying to get their hands on what they believed was a magic Incan amulet."

"The item in the briefcase," Kristina puts together.

"Bam, said the lady!" Castle exclaims.

Kristina blushes. (Ugh.)

"And with Mr. Castle's input, we were able to apprehend the perpetrators and return the artifact to the Quechua people, the descendants of the Incas," Beckett diverts.

Kristina re-sets her serve. "But Mr. Castle was shot in the process."

Gates perks up like a deer altering to a hunter's presence.

"Captain Beckett kicked me off the case after they'd arrested one of their suspects. But the guy was obviously a patsy. It was all too easy. Too neat," Castle says.

The Deputy clears her throat pointedly.

"We had ample evidence," Beckett provides.

"Of course you did. He was the fall guy, so they handed him to you on a silver platter!"

"Which is why you kept digging," Kristina assesses. "You thought there was more to the story."

"Right again."

Kristina's mouth curls with a seductive grin. (Double ugh.)

Gates gives the captain a look, as if to say: This is the man you're staking your career on?

"And I - uh, suspected Mr. Castle wouldn't leave well enough alone, so I retraced the investigation," Beckett says in an attempt to save face, "Which led me right to him… just as he got caught in the middle of a gun fight without a gun."

(She's not sure this is helping her case.)

"Yeah, she totally saved my life," he jokes. "That's why when I saw one of the bad guys take aim at her, I thought I'd return the favor."

"You jumped in front of Captain Beckett. Took two bullets to the chest," Kristina states.

His voice softens. No false bravado. "Figured it was the least I could do."

An admonishing glare from her. Don't look at me like that.

"A real-life White Knight. Wow," Kristina gushes. "I understand your recovery took several months. What was that like?"

He slips back into his playboy persona, the full charm offensive. "You know, I had an amazing team help me get back on my feet and I can't thank the doctors and nurses over at NYU Langone enough. Or my family. My mother made a huge sacrifice by stepping back from the stage for a little while and my daughter made the choice to move back home. I'm forever grateful for their love and care."

"I think we're all grateful. Really glad to see you back in the saddle," Kristina says with a winsome and innocent smile, while sounding for all the world like Marlyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday, Mr. President to JFK, her tone breathy and dripping in sex.

(The Barracuda, indeed.)

"Well, I'm especially grateful to Captain Beckett. I never thought I'd ever write anything of value again until I met her."

Nice try, Writer Boy. (Still on thin ice.)

"You tag along on cases regularly, I hear. Does that mean you carry a gun?" Kristina queries, searching for another chink in his armor.

"Oh no, she doesn't let me."

"So you go in unarmed?"

"Always wearing a vest. Captain Beckett is all about safety and proper protocol. And she's the best at what she does. Probably why her precinct has the highest closure rates in the city."

Beckett flicks her gaze to Gates with a small smirk. See?

The Deputy's mouth twitches.

Kristina changes gear. "In Frostbite, your main character Gemma Frost—her life is complicated by a reporter named Nicholas Bishop, who's following her around for an article he's writing. They have this really great back-and-forth and I found their dynamic and love story compelling. How much would you say you've based it on your dynamic with Captain Beckett?"

Castle lets out a surprised laugh. "Are you asking if I'm in love with Captain Beckett?"

Every person in the room leans forward, on the edge of their seats. (Why the hell do they care so much anyway?)

Kristina shrugs, nonchalant. "You seem pretty smitten."

"I mean, who wouldn't be?" he chuckles and Beckett stares at him, daggers in her eyes. Abort. Abort. "But uh, no - the dynamic between Nick and Gemma has no basis in my dynamic with Captain Beckett. It's simply a product of my overactive imagination. Entirely fictional. And Captain Beckett is nothing, if not, the consummate professional. She would never cross that line."

He flashes her a shit-eating grin. Oh, he's having way too much fun with this. It unsettles her a little. What a smooth operator he can be. If she hadn't been the one fucking his brains out for the past two nights, she'd almost be inclined to believe him. His mother was right when she said he missed his calling for show biz.

"So there's no truth to the rumors of you two being romantically involved?" Kristina presses.

"I'm - uh, actually seeing someone," Beckett mentions.

It had been Castle's idea—something to throw people off the scent. A red herring. (Not that anyone is buying it for a second, are they?)

"You're seeing someone?" he asks. "Who's the lucky guy?"

She narrows her eyes at him. Careful. "Nobody that you would know, okay?"

"Are you sure? I know a lot of guys," he protests. "Just give me something. Is he a bad boy? A James Dean, huh? A desperado?"

She scoffs, an over-the-top thing, and comically jerks her thumb at him. "Do you see what I'm dealing with?"

Soft chuckles from around the room. Kristina, a canned laugh. "Forgive me - but why do you keep him around? Isn't having a civilian tagging along to crime scenes a nuisance? Not to mention, a liability?"

"Yes, well - despite his propensity for being a bit of a class clown, Mr. Castle's proven to be surprisingly helpful."

"Did you just use the word propensity? That was so hot."

"You should hear me say fallacious," she says without missing a beat. Too late, she remembers they're not alone. Shit. Habit. What was she supposed to do? Not tease him?

Kristina smirks and scribbles something down on her pad. Her legs cross over each other and she leans forward, flaunting her cleavage. "So - as a handsome, best-selling author I'm sure you must have women throwing themselves at you all the time."

(Subtle.)

"Well, we all have our crosses to bear," Castle says with a put-upon sigh.

Kristina laughs again. Hard. A little too hard.

Beckett rolls her eyes. "Yeah, it's so rough being you."

"No one special in your life right now?" Kristina probes.

"Actually, I do," Castle replies and her heart jumps in her throat. What the hell is he— "I've been spending more time with my daughter lately. Re-connecting."

Oh.

"But you're single?" Kristina presses. It's like watching a human Venus Fly Trap lure in her prey.

"Why do you ask?" the writer counters.

"Well, I was wondering if you'd like to get dinner with me tomorrow night?"

It takes everything in Beckett not to react; remain poker faced.

"Oh, wow." Castle's cheeks heat. Seriously? "I'm uh - flattered." Is he now? "But I'm afraid I have to decline. I'm not looking to date at the moment."

"Not even for old time's sake?" Kristina simpers with a pout.

Old time's sake?

A sick feeling grows in the pit of Beckett's stomach. Fan-fucking-tastic. He and The Barracuda have history.

"My schedule keeps me busy," Castle offers with a polite smile.

Nice save, Writer Boy.

But Kristina approaches from a different angle. "Finally hanging up the bachelor lifestyle?"

(Jesus, can't this woman take a hint and just… Back. The. Hell. Off?)

"I'm really focusing on my writing right now. I've been blocked for a long time, so I want to ride this wave of inspiration while I can, you know?"

"All business and no pleasure, huh?" Kristina sighs.

"I find a lot of pleasure in my creative process."

Kristina feigns interest. "Can you speak more to that?"

Just then, Beckett's phone goes off, a loud bzz, bzz.

(Thank-the-fucking-Lord.)

"Excuse me, I have to get this."

Her call lasts less than a minute.

(Her doctor's office wanted to schedule her annual check-up.)

But she's not ready to walk back into the lion's den and watch a former conquest sink her claws into the man she loves. She feels nauseous. A migraine, well on its way.

What she needs is some coffee.

A few uniforms scatter from the break room as she enters, one of the doors flying shut in their haste to leave. (Jesus, is she really that scary?) She busies herself with the espresso machine, sighing, barely registering when the second door closes on a quiet snick.

"I don't know who you think you're trying to fool."

Beckett jumps, spraying milk froth onto her blouse. (This is so not her day.) She reaches for a napkin and blots at the damp fabric before turning toward the interloper—Castle's ex-wife. Panic builds in her chest and sweat pools in her palms. "Excuse me?"

The perfectly coiffed blonde smirks. "Richard looks at you like you walk on water. Talks about you like you're Joan-of-freaking-Arc. And I'm pretty sure you were about to strangle that woman in there."

Beckett doesn't say anything, not willing to give up any ground.

Gina leans her hip against the counter, crossing her arms. "Look, I'd say it's none of my business, but his public image, who he - uh… associates with, is very much my business."

(Sure, it is.)

"Can I ask you a question?" Beckett asks.

Gina gestures as if to say, you have the floor.

"Why didn't it work out? Between you and Rick?" Beckett quirks an eyebrow in challenge. "Or is that too personal?"

The blonde unfurls with a Chesire grin. "Oh, you're good."

Beckett balls up her napkin and throws it into a trash can. It sails straight in—nothing but net. "Interrogations are my speciality."

An amused smile tugs at Gina's lips. "I'm sorry for prying. It's just…he's important to me. I care about him. And I haven't been doing a good job of looking after him like I should."

Beckett's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"No matter what, Richard's always been a good friend to me. And these past couple of years… I wasn't there for him when he needed me." Her chin wobbles. "To answer your question—the main reason we didn't work was…we were never in love. It started off as a fling. Just letting off some steam, you know? He was hurt after Meredith left. And I was there. I was familiar. And he liked that I had a mind of my own. That I called him out on his bullshit and didn't coddle his feelings." She pauses. "As for me, I liked how fun and charming he was. It's one of the things that attracted me to him the most. That…childlike sweetness." She sighs. "But it also ended up being the thing that drove me crazy. He can be such a little boy sometimes and I always had to stay on top of him, make sure he met his deadlines. The nagging Wendy to his Peter Pan."

"So why'd you marry him?"

"He didn't want Alexis to grow up like he did—a parade of short-lived affairs walking in and out of the door. He and his mother moved around a lot when he was a kid. He wanted stability. I wanted the social status he could afford me." She picks at an invisible thread on her dress. "People don't respect a single woman with career ambitions. They see her as hard and cold. Unfeeling." Gina shoots her a meaningful glance. "I'm sure you know what that's like."

"Did they call you Ice Queen too?"

Gina cracks a smile. "Mad Cowell."

Beckett sucks in a sympathetic breath. "Ouch."

"Listen, Captain Beckett—"

"Kate," she interrupts. "Please call me Kate."

"Kate," Gina nods. "Me and Richard? What we had was essentially a business arrangement. So when he wanted to end things, I was furious. I wasn't ready to change the terms of agreement and I felt like he was trying to ruin my reputation. That all my hard work was for nothing. It's not his fault, but I was branded the crazy bitch who couldn't handle her authors—the woman who couldn't stop Richard Castle from killing the golden goose." She sighs heavily. "So as punishment…I dropped him from White Knight and spread rumors that he was difficult to work with. Tanked his career instead of mine."

Beckett isn't sure how to process this information. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"I don't know. Aren't you the person to go to when there's a crime to confess?"

"But you didn't commit a crime," the captain blurts. Gina raises a skeptical eyebrow and Beckett blushes. "I'm not saying I agree with what you did. But I understand why you did what you did."

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?" Gina tosses out.

"Yeah, something like that."

Gina purses her lips; a thin smile. "I tried to make it up to him with Finite Laughter. Alexis called me back then. Told me how much he was struggling. So I published what was supposed to be his fresh start. And then it completely panned and I felt like all I did was make things worse. Like I was his bad luck charm or something." She ducks her head in shame. "So I stayed away after. And when I heard he got shot, I nearly had a fucking heart attack. I uh - knew he'd gotten mixed up with some bad people over the years and I thought it was my fault." Her voice rasps. "Because I wasn't paying enough attention."

"Gina—"

The blonde shudders a breath. "I just…is it serious between you two? Do you really care about him? Because he's grown up so much since he's met you and the last thing he needs is someone using him again. He deserves something real."

Beckett wonders if she can trust Gina's word…maybe this is all a ploy crafted by the publisher to catch her in a lie, but her instincts are telling her the blonde is acting as a concerned friend. As a woman trying to atone for her sins and make amends for her mistakes.

"It's real," she reveals.

Gina sags in relief. "Good." A commotion outside draws their attention—people pouring out of the interview room. The Coterra Inquisition must be over. (Finally.) Beckett watches the blonde's eye wander over to Paula. The publicist is in the throes of heated discussion with Kristina, her sleek black ponytail bobbing wildly. And then something curious happens…the hard lines of the blonde's statuesque face soften, her expression akin to what can best be described as moony. Hell, if Beckett didn't know any better, she'd say…

The publisher murmurs, "We all deserve something real."

Shut. The. Front. Door.

"Are you and Paula—?"

Gina covers her mouth. "Did I say that out loud?"

"You know, maybe I misspoke?" Beckett beseeches.

The blonde flushes a deep red. "No, it's okay. Um, just - please don't say anything to Richard yet? It's new and we want to tell him ourselves."

"Of course."

(Love really is in the damn air.)

"Look, if you ever need anything…call me?" Gina proffers her business card. "I know this is a different world for you, so if you need any help keeping your privacy. Or your sanity—"

Kate chuckles.

"Seriously though," Gina implores. "This article. This book. They're gonna be big. I mean—huge. You guys are fucking lightning in a bottle. Anyway - " Her hand flicks to the side in an off-handed wave. "You held your own in there today, but it's only gonna get harder."

Fuck.

Beckett takes the card and nods, "Thank you."

Gina smiles kindly. "And Kate?"

"Yeah?"

The blonde winks as she pulls the door to the bullpen open.

"He's all yours."

The air crackles with tension while she and the writer wait for the elevator doors to close. She jabs the button for the lobby once they do. The cab descends.

"So - you slept with her."

"Very briefly," he defends. "Back when she was on TV and I was promoting Finite Laughter. I didn't know she was going to be interviewing us, I'm so sorry. But hey—" He nudges her shoulder. "You and me—we put on a hell of a show, didn't we?"

She bites the inside of her cheek and adjusts the watch on her wrist. "Anyone else I need to know about?"

(Not out of the dog house yet, Buster.)

He sighs in defeat. "Paula and I had a night together in Ibiza. Like way way back."

She huffs slightly. "Do you sleep with all the women you work with?"

"Just the ones who want to sleep with me." He bats his eyelashes cartoonishly.

She raises a finger in warning. "Don't be cute."

"Sorry - I'm just kinda terrified you want nothing to do with me anymore." He runs a hand through his hair. "What did Gina say to you? Is it anything I need to be worried about?"

She softens. "Nothing damaging, okay? I actually like you a little bit more now."

"You do?"

"You and Gina should probably talk though."

"About what?"

"Look, Castle." She faces him. "I'm not going to hold your past against you." She straightens the lapels on his coat. "I mean, it's not like I've told you about all the guys I've slept with."

His eyes widen imperceptibly. "How many are we talking…exactly?"

She steps back. "Are you really asking for my number right now?"

He sticks his chin out. "You show me yours, I'll show you mine."

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. She gives him a look and stalks off. So not the time or place. He follows her outside and down a couple blocks. When she rounds a corner, he snags her by the elbow. "Kate, hold on. Are we okay?"

She sighs. "I'm a big girl, Rick. I'll get over it." She tilts her head down and lowers her voice. "But as long as we're together, I don't want that woman near us again."

"That goes without saying," he says on an exhale of relief. And then, scratching a spot behind his ear, he asks, "Uh - what about Gina and Paula?

Her lips twist with a cryptic smile. "I'm not worried about them."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Talk to Gina, kay? I have lunch with my dad." She buttons his coat together and glances up at him. "Call you later?"

He grins. "Looking forward to it."

"I mean, are we kidding ourselves? He's this famous author and I'm just this cop. We're from totally different worlds."

"Don't sell yourself short, Katie. You're not just a cop. You captain your own precinct and speak for the dead. Deliver justice. Best closure rates in the city, right? That's not nothing," her dad contends.

"I know, but…"

"Do you remember when you were little and you wouldn't accept a nightlight?"

"I wouldn't?"

"Your mother and I knew you were afraid of the dark, but I think it became a point of pride for you. To stare the darkness down." He sips from his coffee mug and sets it down, his hands wrapping around the ceramic for warmth. "You've always been too stubborn for your own good. Especially when you're scared."

"I don't know. It's like we've been doing this dance for the past couple months and…I mean, what happens when the music stops? What if all we were in love with was the dance?"

Her dad sits back in his booth seat. "I think both you and I know this is more than that. That's why you're spiraling - because this one's different…this is the one that really matters."

She sighs, massaging her brow. "I guess I just feel a little stupid for laying all my cards on the table so soon. There's still so much we don't know about each other."

Her dad chuckles. "Maybe you don't have every detail now, but you know the important stuff, right? And it's half the fun of being in a relationship - getting to peel back those layers. And sometimes, when you're in it with the right person, how fast or how slow you move doesn't matter."

"When you know, you know," she nods.

"For what it's worth, I think you're brave for putting it all out there. Hell, it took me three years to tell your mother how I felt about her and everyday, I wish I'd told her sooner."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Okay, now you're just playing dirty, Counselor."

He chortles as Ruth comes over to refill their coffees. The waitress nods at them in greeting. "Good to see you again, Captain. How'd it go with your writer? You looked awfully cozy the other night."

"You brought him here?" her dad inquires, intrigued.

"Yes, Siree," Ruth confirms. "And he was lookin' at her like you used to look at Jo."

"I see," her dad grins. "And how was she looking at him?"

Ruth smiles. "The same way Jo used to look at you."

"Thank you, Ruth," he says, as if dismissing an expert witness from the stand.

"Anytime," Ruth chuckles as she drops off their check.

Beckett buries her face into her hands and groans. "Please don't gloat."

Her dad huffs a laugh. "It's normal to have doubts, Katie girl. You're only human. But you don't have to be so stubborn. It's okay to be afraid of the dark. The unknown. And it's okay to let some light in."

"What if we implode?"

"That's the risk you have to take, honey. Love is a leap of faith." He pulls a couple bills from his wallet. "And if you don't want to listen to me, then listen to your gut. What's it saying?"

She squeezes off a series of shots, each one tearing through the paper target with a satisfying ease.

"You gotta watch those silhouettes. They can be shifty little bastards," Castle says from behind her.

She'd texted him to meet her at the precinct's shooting range, but she doesn't acknowledge him yet, pressing a button in her stall and calling the target to her. She hands him the shredded paper and installs a new one.

"Remind me to never cross you."

She bites back a laugh. Reloads her gun. Squares off.

"My publisher and publicist are dating," he says.

She squints at the target. "Is that weird for you?"

"No, just a bit of a surprise. But the more I think about it, the more I can see it—they're pretty perfect for each other. This also explains a couple things. For one, why my marriage to Gina was the most sexless relationship I've ever been in."

She scoffs a chuckle.

"How's your dad?" he asks.

"Good. Says hi. And he's in for Friday. Can't wait to meet you." She takes her aim and fires three shots straight into the silhouette's groin.

"Oof, that's gotta hurt," Castle says, with his fingers in his ears. "Still mad at me?"

She puts the gun down and tugs off her headphones and protective goggles.

"I'm not mad, Rick. A little blindsided and overwhelmed maybe." She looks at him. "But not mad."

He moves next to her in the small space. "A lot's happened lately, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You know, I read this article - it said hugs that last at least twenty seconds increase levels of oxytocin and reduce blood pressure and cortisol levels. More love hormones and less stress hormones basically."

She huffs a small laugh. "You could just ask - do you need a hug?"

"Do you?"

She falls into him and he catches her, his arms enveloping her, tight and snug. This is what she needed. God, she missed him. She hates not being able to touch him the way she wants to. Hates that they have to hide. The cloak and dagger of it all.

"Look, if you need to take a beat or some time off from this, from me, just say—"

She fists some of his shirt material. "No, that's not what I want." She clutches him closer, inhaling his familiar and comforting scent. "I just need to catch up on some sleep. Some guy's been keeping me up at all hours of the night. Huge pain in the ass."

He chuckles softly. "I have a DreamCloud memory foam mattress and five hundred thread count sheets."

"Twist my arm."

He laughs. "Oh, before I forget." He fishes for something in his pocket. "You probably want this back." He holds up her spare key. Her thoughts race.

Listen to your gut. What's it saying?

Doubling-down, are we?

Love is a leap of faith.

Will you marry me?

We all deserve something real.

She bites her lip. "No, uh - keep it. My...boyfriend should have a key."

His jaw drops.

She shrugs like it's no big deal. "You know, in case you need somewhere to run to in the zombie apocalypse."

He just stares at her, gobsmacked.

"What?" she prompts.

He shakes out of his shock. "Nothing, I just…I feel like the luckiest guy in the world."

She smiles, blushing like a schoolgirl as he strings the key onto his keyring.

"And uh, my girlfriend should have a key." Her heart skips a beat as he offers her a spare for the loft. (God, they're really doing this.) "My place has a fully-stocked panic room. So if the zombie apocalypse does hit, maybe we meet at mine?"

She's terrified. Scared out of her fucking mind. But…it's okay. She knows it in her gut—he's her damn nightlight.

She grins, a huge and happy thing, and takes the key from him.

"Deal."

Chapter Text

Beckett answers her vibrating cell with a silly grin.

"Miss me already?" she teases.

She'd sent Castle home after they'd almost got caught making out at the shooting range. (She really can't keep her hands off him.) But she's supposed to meet him for dinner at the loft in an hour.

Concern furrows her brow when there's no response from him. "Rick?"

But all she hears in response is the smash of glass and a strangled cry.

And then the line goes dead.

What the hell?

She immediately tries him back, but when he doesn't pick up, she jumps to her feet, snatches her jacket off the coat rack, and races out of her office.

(This is not how she imagined using his key for the first time.)

She shoves inside, her gun drawn.

"Woah!" Alexis exclaims as she throws her hands up, a broom falling out of her grasp and onto the ground with a loud clatter.

Beckett immediately drops her stance, her heart jack-rabbiting in her chest. "Shit—sorry, Lex. Didn't mean to scare you." She cards a hand through her hair as she catches her breath. "I, um, got a strange call—thought your dad was in trouble."

The raven-haired girl tentatively lowers her hands, a nervous smile on her face. "Well, uh—there was an…incident." She picks up the broom and gestures toward the kitchen, where shards of glass are scattered far and wide.

Panic grips Beckett. "Is he okay?" she asks.

"He's fine—he's okay," Alexis chastens. "He's just washing up in his bathroom."

The captain tucks her piece away in her hip holster as she enters his room and heads toward his en-suite.

"Rick?"

A faucet squeaks and the sound of running water halts.

"Kate?" he calls out.

She rounds the corner, her heart thundering and only relaxing in relief once her arms are around him, squeezing tightly. "You butt-dialed me. Sounded like you were in danger."

He huffs a wry chuckle as he runs a calming hand down her spine. "You're not entirely wrong."

She pulls back. "What? What happened?"

An odd expression passes over his features. "Kristina Cottera was just here."

Beckett maintains a poker face, but her voice betrays her as she fumbles for coherence. "Wha—what did she want?"

He sighs as he scrubs a hand over his jaw. "Me, apparently."

Her heart drops in her stomach. "What?"

"She said she didn't really want dinner anyway—that she was more interested in dessert."

Her stomach churns. "Oh."

"For the record, I wasn't going to sleep with her." One of his hands rises to cup her jaw, his thumb gently stroking over her cheek in reassurance.

"I know," she says, closing her eyes and leaning into his touch. "I just…" She opens her gaze and circles her arms around his neck. "I don't want some skeezy woman trying to steal my man."

His worried frown transforms into a huge grin. "You don't have to worry about that—I told her I wasn't interested."

A slight apprehension in her chest eases. (She trusts him—she does. This is all just…unexpected.) "And how does the broken glass factor in?" she queries with a tilt of her head.

"Well, she wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, so she tried to kiss-ambush me."

Her pulse races and her vision turns red. "What?"

"But I ducked out of the way immediately," he says quickly, "and knocked a glass off the counter—afterwhich I asked her to leave or I'd call security."

Her pulse evens out and she takes a breath, her anger waning. (God, the audacity of this woman.) "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, uh—but she asked me if I'd 'turned' gay."

"Pardon?" she says, blinking.

"She said no man's ever turned her down before. So I must be gay now—can you believe that?"

Beckett splutters, "Seriously?"

He offers her a wry smile. "I think I need to call Gina—make sure the article isn't in jeopardy."

Oh, God. She hadn't even considered…

A loud beep, beep, beep perforates the air.

"And I need to get that," Castle sighs.

Alexis is already removing the lasagna from the oven when they join her in the kitchen.

"Thanks, honey," Castle murmurs.

The girl nods with a tender smile as she sets the dish on the counter to cool. "Course."

"And thanks for cleaning up." His daughter waves him off. "Everything okay?" she asks, flicking her gaze between the pair.

"I heard you had an interesting visitor," Kate provides.

Alexis scoffs a laugh. "Oh, yeah."

"It was a good thing that Lex was here. Kristina saw this set up." Castle gestures toward the dining table, where there are scattered rose petals and a decanter full of wine, his wall-unit fireplace ablaze in the background. "She started pestering me, claiming I must be hiding something. But Alexis heard the commotion and was able to say it was for a date night that she was planning."

"Thanks for covering," Kate says with a grateful nod.

"It was nothing," the young woman intones.

"Speaking of dates, I'm looking forward to meeting your boyfriend on Friday," Castle says, trapping his daughter in a hug and ruffling her hair.

The girl wriggles out of his embrace. "About that."

"Oh, no. Can he not come anymore?"

"Not exactly."

Okay," Castle says slowly, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"Um. Well." Alexis shucks her oven mitts off and wrings her hands together, nervous and jittery.

"Sweetie, was is it?" her dad urges with a calming hand on her shoulder.

"George isn't my boyfriend."

"Oh. Not official yet?"

"No, we are—it's just…" Alexis takes a breath. "George is actually my girlfriend."

Oh.

Oh.

Beckett glances at Castle. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it, only pausing for a brief second before he's flashing his daughter an easy grin. "Can't wait to meet her."

Relief cascades over the girl's face. "Yeah?"

He's all smiles as he opens his arms. "C'mere."

Alexis launches herself at him and squeezes him tightly. "Love you, Dad."

He kisses the top of her head, eyes shining. "You too, my little raven. So, so much."

When they eventually pull apart, Castle palms at his tears as Alexis clears her throat and self-consciously tucks some of her hair behind her ear. "I wanted to say something sooner, I just…I wanted to make sure it was real first, you know?"

The writer peeks at Beckett. "I know." The captain ducks her head, her cheeks flushing pink. "But you know what's funny?"

Kate looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. "Hmm?"

"She had a boyfriend in high school with a girl's name."

"Ashley," Alexis provides.

"And now you have a girlfriend with a boy's name," he chirps.

"Such an insightful observation," his daughter deadpans.

He lets out a dramatic gasp. "Do I detect sarcasm in your tone?"

The girl rolls her eyes as she bites back a smirk. "I think I'll leave you two alone. I have a paper to write."

"Wait, take some food," the writer implores, picking up a spatula and scooping up a piece of lasagna. Kate takes the opportunity to fold the younger woman into an embrace of her own, murmuring, "I'm so happy for you."

Alexis whispers thank you as they part, her face brimming with joy as her father pushes an overloaded plate into her hands, rambling about brain fuel and filling up properly.

Once she disappears upstairs, the writer immediately turns to face the captain.

"I just blacked out—did I do okay?"

Beckett smiles softly. "You did great."

His head falls into his hands. "God, I feel like such a jackass. She must've been holding onto that for a while."

"You're not a jackass," she says reassuringly as she adjusts his shirt collar. "Well, sometimes you are. But not this time."

He meets her gaze. "Are you sure?"

"Maybe cut back on the ladies' mud-wrestling marathons and the girl-on-girl porn jokes and I think you're good."

He groans. "I'm a monster. No wonder she didn't…"

"It's a typical guy thing. You're overthinking it."

"But I don't want to be a typical guy," he whines in despair. "I want to be better. And I'm supposed to be the cool dad."

"You are the cool dad. And the fact that you're willing to change some of your less-than-savory habits for her just goes to show that."

He cracks a half smile. "Still…I should've noticed. Paid better attention."

"It's my job to notice things, and I missed it, too," she consoles.

"Yeah, but you were busy falling in love with me—you were distracted," he jokes.

"And you were busy falling in love with me!" she protests, indignant. "You were distracted too."

"So, really—this is all your fault," he rationalizes, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Hey!" she cries out, smacking him in the shoulder.

A warm chuckle rumbles in his chest. And then he lets out a sigh. "It's just…everything and everyone is changing. First Gina and Paula. Now Alexis." He gasps. "Do you think my mother…?"

"I wouldn't count it out," Beckett teases. "All that partying in the 70s. Free love."

"She did have a 'good friend' of hers live with us for a little bit there between husbands," he muses. And then he studies her. "What about you?" He wiggles his eyebrows mischievously. "Any female liaisons I should know about?"

"Oh. I don't know," she shrugs. "I've never really interrogated my sexuality before. I mean, I kissed a couple girls in high school and college, but then my mom was killed…I don't know, I just didn't really think about it and I was surrounded by guys all the time, you know? So I'd say I'm probably a one or two on the Kinsey scale."

His jaw drops.

She smirks. "What about you? Any guy ever turn your head?"

"Me?" He flusters. "No, not really."

"Not really?"

"Well, um…growing up, I'd hang out backstage at my mother's shows, and I had a couple boys confess their love to me, but I was too busy trying to hook up with the understudies. Now those girls were something—desperate and needy."

Beckett rolls her eyes with a grin. "You're just a total heartbreaker, aren't you—jackass?"

He chuckles as he pours them both a glass of wine. "Well, it's a good thing my heartbreaking days are behind me."

"Oh, yeah?" she goads, accepting her glass when he hands it to her.

"To change," he toasts.

She clinks her glass against his, her grin widening and her chest glowing with warmth.

"To change."

The next couple of days are pure bliss.

It's like she's in some Harlequin novel—they share covert glances across a room; secret smiles charged with electric tension, the heat building between them all day until they're stumbling through a door at night, ripping each other's clothes off like their lives depend on it.

"God, you're so hot when you help me solve things," she gasps into his ear.

"Fuck, Kate," he growls into her neck.

She digs her heels into his calves, urging him closer and simultaneously yanking his belt off, "That's the idea."

She's quickly becoming a huge fan of his shower—the water pressure is amazing, the temperature is just on the right side of scalding, and he's got all sorts of scented body scrubs and expensive hair creams.

Steam billows around her as she washes off the day and lathers herself in a minty oil. Their case that day had been open-and-shut, but she'd been stuck with a mountain of paperwork. Castle had invited her over for a nightcap, but he'd been in the middle of a call when she'd arrived.

She's rinsing her hair when he finally joins her, gloriously and deliciously naked.

"That was Gina," he murmurs, palms slipping over her hips and his lips skimming the line of her shoulders. Her belly fills with a hot spill of arousal. "She heard back about Kristina Coterra."

She turns toward him, looping her arms around his neck and quirking her brow in question. "And?"

"Apparently, this isn't the first time she's overstepped boundaries like this, so they ended up firing her."

Shock blooms over her. "Seriously?"

He nods.

"Wow…uh, does that mean they're not publishing the article?"

"They had another staff member write the copy," he supplies. "The article will still be released tomorrow."

"So this is our last night of anonymity, huh?" She cocks a playful eyebrow and trails a coy finger down his abdomen.

He walks her backward toward the wall and presses her against the tile as he lowers his grin to hers.

"We better make it count."

"Hot off the presses!" a voice shouts.

Kate slowly stirs, reluctantly peeling from the warm cove of Castle's side as something thumps onto the bed.

"Mother?" the writer groans, half-awake.

"Rise and shine, kiddos—big day!"

Castle smears the sleep from his eyes, his voice thick and gravelly. "Doesn't anyone knock anymore?"

"Door was open. Don't be an old maid. Nothing going on here that I haven't seen and done before."

Beckett flushes a deep red all the same as she bashfully tugs a bit of loose sheet over her chest to minimize exposure. (She's in a dressing gown, but it's not exactly the matronly kind.)

"You know, I have that same negligee, darling, but of course it's in a little tiger print," the redhead says, sitting on the edge of the mattress with a cat-like grin.

(Oh, God.)

Castle shoots Beckett an apologetic glance. "Is there something we can help you with, Mother?" he re-directs.

"Well, I went out first thing, got as many as I could," Martha chatters, holding up a copy of Cosmopolitan magazine from a nearby stack."You two look absolutely fabulous."

A gleaming and glossy photo of her and the writer stare back at her.

It's strange and surreal and out-of-the-ordinary.

Castle is positively regal in the leather chair they had him sit in, his hair perfectly coiffed and his suit jacket, perfectly pressed. But with his mischievous smirk, it looks like he's plotting something. (Which is not outside the realm of possibility.) She's perched behind him on a set of stairs, her hair shining and her skin glowing, the whole effect practically luminescent. (Though it must've been photoshopped because she remembers posing on a stool.) There's a bored expression on her face and the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of her lips—a good choice, in her opinion—it doesn't appear remotely couple-y.

Wow.

She still hadn't expected it to be so…glamorous.

The bold typeface reads: EXCLUSIVE! The Incredible Story of a Crime Writer Turned Crimefighter

In a return to his mystery roots, Richard Castle debuts compelling cop heroine in new novel based on a real-life NYPD captain.

Other blurbs are scattered over their picture:

Together, They Catch Killers

A Writer & His Muse

Master of the Macabre

Her name and his name are stacked on top of each other.

Katherine Beckett, NYPD Captain

Richard Castle, Mystery Novelist

"It turned out great, don't you think?" the writer probes, a nervous lilt in his voice.

"Really great," she reassures, smudging a happy kiss to his cheek.

"Oh, you two are just adorable," Martha coos. And then she's collecting the magazines from the bedspread and making her exit, trilling, "Resume your lovemaking!"

Castle plops back onto his pillows with a groan. "I'll remember to lock the doors next time."

Beckett snorts a laugh.

Never a dull moment with Hurricane Martha, but…she kind of wouldn't have it any other way.

The article itself is solid—a nice breakdown of Castle's epic journey from bullet wounds to bulletproof vests. Their partnership is painted as purely professional and the few select quotes from their recorded interview are relatively tame. There's also a surface-level account of her background—Academy All-Star to youngest female captain—but nothing that digs too deep. A total puff piece.

"Donna's actually an old friend of mine. She used to work at the Ledger and Gina called in a favor," Castle explains when they discuss it on their drive to the precinct.

"Uh huh. What'd you send her?"

"A case of Châteauneuf-du-Pape."

She pulls him in for a kiss at a red light. "Thank you."

He winks. "Least I could do."

There's an outbreak of applause when they walk off the elevator.

"Alright, alright, thank you everybody," she says, migrating toward the center of the bullpen. Someone yells out Speech! and she huffs slightly. "Look, this article isn't really about us," she says, motioning between her and Castle. "It's about all your hard work making this precinct the best it can be. We get to make a difference and I am so privileged to be able to do just that with each and every one of you."

The room applauds again.

"That being said, stop standing around doing nothing and get back to work," she orders with a wink.

Laughs scatter around the space as people disperse and the boys approach them with low whistles, flashing a copy of Cosmo. Except someone's taken a sharpie and drawn funny shapes and cartoonish squiggles all over it so that she and Castle mimic woodland creatures.

"Lookin' good, Cap. Really putting the rest of us to shame," Espo jokes.

"I like what they did with your hair," Ryan says, pointing at the pair of bunny ears sticking out of her head.

Beckett rolls her eyes and snatches the graffitied magazine from them. "Enough with the comedy routine, Laurel and Hardy." Then she notices a gift basket addressed to her on Esposito's desk. "What's this?"

"From 1PP. They must've really liked the article, huh?" Javi says.

"Oh my god, this is one of Oprah's 'Favorite Things' Gift Baskets," Castle gasps upon closer inspection. "Really fancy cheese and crackers," he explains when they just stare at him. "And the artichoke spread is supposed to be to die for."

"Do you think we could try some?" Ryan asks eagerly.

"I think I see a selection of pastries," Javi adds.

She sighs, sensing where this is heading. "Why don't you take it into the break room for everyone to enjoy?" Without missing a beat, they snatch the basket and run off with it, but not before she snags the card with her name on it.

When she flips it open, it reads:

Enjoy it while it lasts.

—Victoria Gates

"Wow, she really doesn't like me," Castle says, reading the note over her shoulder.

Beckett quickly crumples the paper and deadpans, "Well, guess you can't charm the pants off everyone."

"Just you, hmm?" he says, his voice low and eyes sparkling with mirth.

She shakes her head, biting her lip, and covertly skates a finger over the inside of his wrist. "Make me a coffee?" she murmurs.

"You already had your morning coffee."

"Yeah, but they don't know that," she says, tilting her head at a group of uniforms. "It'll look suspicious if you don't."

His face crinkles with a smile as he nods. "As you wish."

Her desk phone is ringing off the hook when she enters her office. She quickly drops her work bag onto Castle's chair and scoops up the receiver.

"Beckett."

"You know, I'm thinking of getting my own mystery writer consultant. You think Stephen King is available?"

She recognizes the voice of her friend Carmen Cruz, the captain over at the 54th Precinct. "What can I do you for, Captain Cruz?" she asks, a grin spreading across her face.

"I'm coming for your compstat scores, Captain Beckett. Highest closure rates in the city, my ass," the other woman mutters.

Beckett sinks into her chair and leans back. "It's not a competition."

"Oh, don't give me that. You know damn well this kind of stuff matters when they're deciding how to allocate budgets and I'm already getting scraps as it is," Carmen grumbles. A long sigh. "Just try to remember us little people when you're rubbing shoulders with all the fancy people, kay?"

A dry chuckle tumbles from Beckett's lips. "You make it sound like I'm leaving you behind."

"Aren't you?"

Beckett's brow cinches in confusion. "I don't follow."

"So you're not using this article to audition for something bigger?"

"Why would you say that?"

"Oh, c'mon. You were approached to run for office last year," Carmen points out.

"Yeah, and I turned them down. I'm a cop. Not a politician."

"If you say so," Carmen says. "But tell me this then—is it true that you and Mr. 'Master of the Macabre' are knocking boots?"

Beckett freezes, her blood running cold. "Wh—you, um…where'd you hear that?" she asks, trying her best to maintain nonchalance in her tone.

"It's been a pleasure to provide Mr. Castle insight to our profession," Carmen recites, repeating a quote from the Cosmo article.

"What's your point?"

"Just last week you were calling him an 'immature, egotistical, self-centered jackass,'" the other captain argues. "So either, someone's holding a gun to your head or he's your new mystery guy. Because I also happen to know you haven't been with anyone in over five months." There's the flap of turning pages. "But according to Cosmo, you're seeing someone."

(Damn it.)

"Fine," Beckett grumbles. "You caught me, okay? I'm not actually seeing anyone. I just said that to get them off my back. You know how it is for us career women—they take you less seriously if you're single."

"Okay, now you're just totally bullshitting me. C'mon, I'm your friend. Details."

She'd tell Carmen. She would. And she hates lying, but her friend is the biggest gossip—she can't risk it.

"There are no details."

Carmen tuts disapprovingly and Beckett hears the scribble of a pen on a notepad. "Witness refuses to cooperate."

Beckett barks a laugh. "Don't you have some actual witnesses to interview?"

The other captain sighs. "I'm gonna get the truth out of you one day."

"Goodbye, Carmen," Beckett sing-songs as she moves to hang up.

"Hey, Kate?" her friend interjects, her voice gentle and more earnest.

Beckett pauses. "Yeah?"

"You sound happy."

Just then, Castle sails into her office with a fresh steaming cup of coffee, whistling some jaunty tune, and her stupid heart leaps.

"Yeah," Kate replies softly, already grinning like an idiot. "I am."

It's a relatively slow day, a couple more Congratulations! calls trickling in from colleagues at other precincts and she tackles some of the paperwork piling up in her inbox, while Castle plays Angry Birds on his phone.

He leaves after lunch to start preparing for their big 'Meet-the-Parents' dinner later and for the rest of the afternoon, she receives a stream of texts, asking her what kind of flowers he should get, how he should set the table, what kind of napkins he should use, etc.

And it's adorable—how worried he is about getting everything right, but it's also driving her kind of nuts and she can't concentrate. She ends up making some excuse and heads out early. (Perks of being a captain.)

She stops by a store close to the loft and picks up a couple things that Castle had been fretting about, only to arrive at his front door to the screech of a fire alarm.

"It's completely ruined," Castle moans, burying his face in his hands.

Tendrils of smoke rise from the charred heap of their would-be steaks.

"What happened?" she asks, trying to hold back laughter.

"I was just setting them in the pan when Gina called. She wanted to go over some edits, so I went into the office and…"

"Out of sight, out of mind," she fills in.

"Yeah," he says with a long and heavy sigh.

"Well, I went shopping." She lifts the bags in her hands. "We can still make fajitas."

He sags with relief. "I love you."

She grins as she leans in to kiss him. "You better."

"Which one?" he asks, holding up a bright red tie and a garishly orange one.

The food is warming on the stove, the table is set, and everyone else is set to arrive in the next ten minutes.

She grimaces. "Neither of those."

"Neither?" he asks, looking despondent.

She checks her appearance in the mirror above his dresser, swiping on some more red lipstick and adjusting her bun. Satisfied, she turns toward him. "Why are you getting your panties in such a twist?"

"I just…I want your dad to think I'm a suitable match."

She raises an eyebrow. "First of all, this isn't some Jane Austen book—you don't need my father's approval. And secondly…can I tell you a secret?"

"Hmm?"

"He's already a huge fan."

He brightens. "Yeah?"

She takes both ties from his grip and tosses them into an open sock drawer. "What are you really worried about?" she questions, unbuttoning his shirt a little and opening up his collar around his throat. (A tie is too fancy anyway. She's in a casual flowy top, slacks, and sensible heels. And she doesn't want him to feel like he's wearing a noose all evening.)

"I just want to impress everyone, and I don't know anything about…" He falters, gesturing to a stack of new books on his nightstand. She glimpses a few of the titles.

Unconditional: A Guide to Loving and Supporting Your LGBTQ Child

Raising My Rainbow

How to Be an Ally

It's heart-warming how willing he is to go the extra mile for his daughter. (Not to mention incredibly sweet and sexy.) But—"I don't think anyone's gonna quiz you or ask you to have a deep, philosophical take on queer identity," she supplies. "George is a person. You're a person. Just be yourself and do what you do best."

"What's that?"

"Bombard her with a million questions," she says with a sly smile. "Worked on me, didn't it?"

He rumbles with laughter and then he's tucking some hair behind her ear, eyes soft with affection. "You're amazing, you know that?"

"Right back at ya," she grins.

He's just about to kiss her when the doorbell rings. Sucking in a big breath and puffing up his chest, he gives her a nod.

"Showtime?"

She pecks a quick kiss to his lips and smiles.

"Showtime."

"So, um. George. I've been dying to ask—how did you two meet?"

Alexis's girlfriend is tall and lanky with shaggy dark hair, reminding her of Ally Sheedy's goth character in The Breakfast Club before her preppy makeover. But unlike the film's angsty and guarded "basketcase," George is a ray of sunshine, beaming with joy and delight.

Castle waited all of five minutes before he started in on his interrogation.

But if George is rattled or perturbed, she doesn't let it show, easily replying, "Well, I don't know if Lex has told you, but I'm a photography major. And I was working a gig at Supernova Con when I saw her with her friends."

"We were dressed as characters from Xena: Warrior Princess," Alexis adds, slipping an arm around her girlfriend's waist.

"Oh, yes. It was very sexy," George practically purrs, nuzzling her nose against Alexis's cheek.

The raven-haired young woman blushes deeply as Castle tries not to choke on his wine.

Beckett pats his back while Georges continues, "And after I took their picture, I asked if they'd be open to modeling for a class project of mine."

"What? How come I haven't seen these photos?" Castle asks.

Alexis hides behind a sip of her wine as George explains, "The theme was burlesque."

"Ah," Castle says, deflating a little.

Beckett senses that he's upset because Alexis concealed yet another part of herself from him. She knows he still carries a lot of guilt for missing out on his daughter's life the past couple of years and he's been trying hard to close the distance.

George doesn't seem to notice the flash of disappointment on the writer's face or that Alexis is pointedly avoiding eye contact with him. "I really admired how much Lex was willing to do something outside of her comfort zone. And when I got to know her more, I just loved how passionate she was about everything. I've never met anyone with such an incredible work ethic."

Castle shifts on his feet and tugs Beckett a little closer. "So you fell for your muse."

An understanding smile from George. "I suppose I did, yeah."

He grins widely, shaking off his hurt, and winks. "I can relate."

"I've been hearing about these dinners for quite some time now," her dad says. "I'm glad I finally got a chance to actually attend."

"We're glad to finally have you," Martha says, cutting a piece of chocolate cake and piling it onto her plate. "Though I dare say, I've been going on too much about myself."

"What else is new?" Castle mutters under his breath. Beckett elbows him in the side as his mother asks her father, "How's the law treating you?"

The captain had been a little worried that her mild-mannered, discerning father might find someone like Martha a bit too gauche or not serious enough.

"Yeah, I've got a class action lawsuit that's keeping me pretty busy."

"Oh, well I hope you find time to cut loose, and just do something fun," the redhead replies.

"Well, of course. I try to take in a baseball game every now and again."

"Oh, Lord. Baseball? Isn't that dreadfully dull?" Martha says dryly, biting down a forkful of cake.

(Oh, God.) Beckett digs her nails into Castle's knee as if it'll help dispel any incoming conflict. (Nobody disses baseball in front of a Beckett and gets away with it.)

But her father doesn't seem to take offense. Instead, he asks, "When's the last time you went to a game?"

Martha sets her fork down, thinking. "You know what, I can hardly remember anymore."

Beckett releases her grip on the writer, relief surging through her.

"How about I take you sometime?" her dad asks. "Matter of fact, why don't I get us all tickets—make a day out of it?"

"Oh, that sounds wonderful," Martha says. "Count me in."

'Us, too," Alexis says, lacing her hand with George's with a happy grin.

When her father looks at her expectantly, Beckett quickly nods. "Oh, yeah. Once the public attention dies down, I think we'd love that."

"Oh and speaking of getting everyone together—I wanted to officially invite you all to my final performance as Auntie Mame," Martha announces. "It won't be for a couple months, but it's tradition for my family to show up on the last show. Once I've honed my performance and all. So don't forget to mark your calendars."

Castle lays a hand on his mother's shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

"We wouldn't miss it."

Alexis and George leave together once the dishes are cleared and the leftovers have been tucked away. Martha sails out the door soon after, claiming her night is just getting started. And Castle empties the trash while she walks her father out.

"I told Rick he has my blessing," the older man says.

"What?"

"Kidding!" he chuckles. "God, you're easy."

She shoves a fist into his shoulder. "So not funny."

"But seriously," he says, sobering. "I think you're perfect for each other. Your mother would've loved him."

Unexpected tears well in her eyes. She hadn't realized how much her dad's approval actually meant to her.

"Thank you," she rasps, bringing him in for a hug. He stiffens for a moment before relaxing into it and hugging her back. (They're not usually so open with each other, but they've knocked down a wall tonight.)

When they eventually break apart, he asks, "Oh and do you have an extra advance copy of the book? I'd love to read it. Though I'll probably skip that sex scene everyone seems to be talking about."

She huffs a wry laugh.

"I think that would be wise."

The next week, Beckett finds herself shacking up with Castle for a few days as her place gets fumigated. It's not much of a change—they've been pretty much attached at the hip since their first date, spending morning, noon, and night together—but it does feel a little different, like there's no safety net under the tightrope she's on.

And to make the balancing act more precarious—Alexis and George had both come down with mono and are currently quarantined in the loft living room.

"Are you sure you don't want to get a hotel?" he asks when he's making breakfast on the first morning of her stay. "I know it's a full house."

"No. No, I'm not going to leave you just because your daughter and her girlfriend are sick," she reassures.

The doorbell rings and Martha shouts, "I'll get it!" as she trots down the stairs.

"I am going to make this up to you in so many ways," he says in a suggestive voice.

Beckett smirks, anticipation already coursing through her.

"Richard," Martha calls out loudly.

"What?" he huffs.

His mother opens the door more to reveal another redhead.

"Your ex-wife is here."

Chapter Text

"Meredith?" Castle gulps.

A gorgeous and lithe redhead floats inside. "Hello, Puppykins."

Beckett arches an eyebrow at her partner. Puppykins?

"Um, wha—what are you doing here?" Castle asks.

"Alexis, oh, my poor baby." His ex-wife perches on the edge of the couch cushion. "And you must be George. I've heard so much about you. I'm just devastated we weren't able to make our trip happen."

(Alexis and George had planned to travel to Europe with Meredith for their spring break.)

"Speaking of…aren't you supposed to be in Paris?" Alexis asks.

"Not without my daughter and her darling girlfriend," Meredith says in mock affront. "And since you can't go to Par-ee, I'm bringing Par-ee to you both. French pastries and Funny Face. We can enjoy them as I nurse you all back to health."

A shocked silence falls over the loft, no one quite sure how to factor in this…unexpected gear in the works. But Meredith doesn't seem to notice the awkward tension brewing as she twists to face the kitchen.

"And you must be the famous Captain Beckett—the new muse. You know, I was his inspiration once," she says with a Cheshire Cat grin.

Beckett doesn't know how to respond, but judging from Meredith's overly saccharine tone, she has the distinct impression she's just been insulted. The captain offers the redhead a forced smile and then directs a daggerfull-glare at the writer, quietly begging him to do something.

"Uh, Meredith, why so much luggage?" Castle asks lightly.

His ex-wife's grin grows even wider, her eyes shining with viscous delight.

A shadow passes over Castle's face, and he immediately shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but you should've called. I'm afraid I can't accommodate you."

"What are you talking about? You have a guest room," the redhead says, laughing like he's just said the most absurd thing in the world.

"Meredith," he says, his voice deadly calm and assertive. (Beckett's never heard him sound so authoritative before and it's really turning her on.)

The redhead blinks, dumbfounded. "Are you seriously kicking me out?"

"It's not technically kicking you out if you weren't really here to begin with," he argues. "Besides, you can't just show up here unannounced and expect me to welcome you with open arms—we don't have that kind of relationship anymore." He crosses his arms over his chest. "But I'm more than happy to put you up in the hotel across the street and you can come over once we establish acceptable visiting hours. How does that sound?"

Meredith rolls her eyes and turns toward her daughter. "Alexis, sweetie—tell your father you want me here. I mean, you do want me here, right? We haven't seen each other in ages."

Before the raven-haired girl has a chance to reply, Castle cuts in: "Don't do that. Don't put her in the middle of this. This is my place—it's my decision," he proclaims vehemently. "The doorman will help you with your bags."

Fuck, he's never been more attractive.

Arousal spears through Beckett, hot and fast and delirious.

Meredith glances around the room, searching for an ally, but nobody comes to her rescue.

"Well, alright," she huffs slightly. "Puppykins is a big dog now, huh?" She stands, straightening her shoulders and sticking her chin out proudly. "Across the street, you said?"

"It's a lovely, luxurious boutique. Up to your standards," Castle confirms.

Meredith blows a kiss to Alexis. "Feel better, ma chérie." Then she flashes her ex-husband a sickly sweet smile and a flirtatious wink on her way out the door, simpering, "Call you later, Ricky."

Beckett fumbles for his belt buckle as she attacks his mouth with a hungry fervor.

She'd dragged him into the bathroom after everyone had applauded his tactful takedown.

The writer had apologized to Alexis for putting his foot down like that without consulting her, but his daughter had waved him off, saying she knows her mother has a penchant for stirring up trouble and it was better this way.

"Woah. Do we have time for this?" he asks when she quickly unbuttons his jeans and palms him through his boxers.

"You're really sexy when you're setting boundaries."

He chuckles. "Liked that, huh?"

"I liked it a lot," she breathes, trailing open-mouthed kisses up his neck. When she reaches the soft shell of his ear, she sultrily whispers, "You've been a very good boy." And then she's getting on her knees and jerking his pants down his legs.

She grins up at him, a naughty gleam in her eye.

"You deserve a treat."

They don't get another moment alone until late afternoon, splitting an order of Chinese in the precinct break room. She's been stuck on conference calls all morning and Castle's been helping the boys with their new case—something involving death by bowling ball.

He fills her in, outlining the potential suspects from the local competitive bowling leagues, but his heart doesn't seem to be in it. No crackpot theories or quirky quips and he hasn't even touched his fortune cookie yet.

When there's a lull that lasts too long, she nudges his shin with the tip of her shoe under the table. "What's wrong, Puppykins?"

He narrows his gaze at her. "Please don't call me that."

She bites back a smirk and nudges him again. "You've been awfully quiet. Something on your mind?"

He sighs forlornly and passively picks at his kung-pao chicken. "I don't know. Seeing Meredith again after all these years…it's bringing up some old stuff. I was thinking of scheduling an appointment with Burke."

"Okay," she nods, her brow furrowing with concern. "You know you can talk to me too, right?"

He smiles at her, warm and affectionate and full of adoration. "I know."

She curls her hand around his wrist, her thumb stroking over his pulse point. "Maybe you need to get out of your head right now," she murmurs quietly. "Can I show you something that usually helps me?"

She launches her fist into the boxing bag with a satisfying pow. Then she spins on her axis and smacks the topside of her bare foot into it with a loud whack.

Castle stares at her in awe. "Do that again."

She shakes her head with a soft laugh as she returns to a normal stance. "Your turn."

She'd taken him up to the fifth floor where the precinct gym is, and scrounged up some workout clothes for him, an oversized NYPD t-shirt with cutoff sleeves and a pair of basketball shorts from the lost and found.

Holding the bag for him, she motions him forward. "C'mon. Hit me with your best shot."

"I won't look nearly as badass," he says, waffling.

"Rick," she gently admonishes.

He sighs and reluctantly squares up, eyeing the bag trepidatiously.

"If you do this, I'll give you another treat," she teases.

"Really?" he asks, perking up.

Her eyes flick to his groin; a salacious grin curves over her lips. "More than one way to blow off steam."

His mouth drops open and then he's suddenly bouncing on his soles with fresh determination and pummeling the equipment with swift and strong strokes.

"That's it!" she shouts in encouragement.

He keeps going, getting more into it, even experimenting with a couple touches of his feet. Soon, he's glistening with sweat and she can't stop staring at the contour of his biceps or the powerful swing of his arm, a wave of heat building momentum in her abdomen and spreading to the ends of her toes and fingertips.

Just when she thought he couldn't get any sexier…wow.

"Harder," she orders.

He obeys with a quick succession of pow, pow, pow.

"Harder!"

"Oh, God, yes."

She bites down on his palm, muffling the rest of her moan as she comes apart, her body slumping against his in a liquid, boneless heap.

(He'd wanted to give her a treat instead.)

"This is the first and last time we're doing this here, got it?" she murmurs dazedly, eyes half-lidded with residual lust.

"You should've never told me you had access to a private bathroom," he husks, slipping his fingers out of her.

"I'm not kidding," she whines but it's not very convincing.

"Well, I'm still angling to have my wicked way with you on your desk one day," he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

(There's her guy.)

She huffs a small laugh. "Never gonna happen."

"We'll see," he hums, planting a kiss on her temple.

While she tugs her Lycra leggings back up, she watches him wash his hands in the sink, a hazy, lovestruck grin claiming her face. He meets her gaze in the mirror and tilts his head in question, his lips quirking up tenderly.

"What's that look for?"

"Nothing," she says with a shrug. "I'm just…really proud of how you handled everything today."

He shuts the faucet off and wipes his hands dry. But he's much too far away, so she reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls him back to her.

A self-deprecating huff from him. "Let's just hope she doesn't try something else. Meredith tends to suck the life force out of things."

"You make her sound like a vampire."

"Don't let her sink her teeth into you," he jokes.

"I'll keep an eye out for her fangs," she tosses back.

He looks at her fondly, his fingers traveling up her jaw in a reverent glide. "Thank you for being so cool about this. And for shaking me out of my funk. I know it's a lot and you've been incredible." He glances down at her sports bra. "I especially love seeing you in all this sexy spandex. You should definitely wear this outfit more often."

She smirks, curling a hand around his nape while the other circles his bicep, lightly squeezing it. "And you should definitely wear this one more often, Big Dog," she husks, bringing her mouth to his.

He growls playfully into the kiss.

"Woof."

After rinsing off in separate locker rooms and changing back into their day clothes, they meet back in her office and she closes the blinds just as Castle wraps up a call on his cell.

"Thank you for letting me know, Mother," he says before hanging up and shutting the door behind him.

"How are our patients?" Beckett asks as he tucks his phone into the inside of his sport coat.

"Mother says Meredith brought over some soup and the girls have been napping all afternoon."

"That's good. And that's nice of Meredith."

Castle shakes his head, a contemplative look on his face. "I don't know. She's up to something."

A small chuckle of disbelief tumbles from her. "Oh, really?"

His cell vibrates before he can respond. "One sec," he sighs, reaching for his phone again and showing her the flash of Gina's name on the front screen before he picks it up.

And then her cell is vibrating with a call. Her forehead pinches with confusion at the unknown number but she answers it anyway as Castle drifts toward her office couch.

"Beckett," she says in a clipped tone, heading toward her desk.

"Kate?" a bubbly voice asks.

"Yes, this is she," she says, perching on the corner and examining her fingernail. "May I ask who's calling?"

"This is Meredith."

Kate's spine straightens. "Oh. Hi." She glances at her partner—his back is turned to her. "I, uh, have Castle right here." She makes a move to get up.

"No, no. I wanted to speak with you."

She stills, trepidation skittering over her skin. "You did?"

"Yeah, I feel like I owe you an apology for this morning. And I was wondering if you'd let me take you out to dinner tonight to make up for it."

"Oh, um." Beckett bites her lip, caught off guard, her thoughts running a mile a minute. What does this mean? What does she want?

"Look, if you're uncomfortable…" Meredith provides in the growing silence.

"No, no—dinner works. Dinner's great. I get off at six," she says quickly. (God, she sounds like an idiot.)

"Perfect, see you then!" the redhead chirps. The call ends and Beckett stares at her device, a bit stunned. What the hell did she just agree to?

"Bam, says the lady!" Castle shouts.

"What?" she asks.

He spins toward her, alight with joy and bouncing on his heels.

"The article was such a huge splash that our book pre-sales are off the charts!" he announces.

"Told you so," she says with a smile.

"And the production studio Gina's been in talks with thinks they have a huge moneymaker on their hands."

"Seriously?" she gawps.

He nods eagerly, bursting with excitement. "They bought the movie option—Frostbite is gonna be on the silver screen!"

"Babe, that's amazing!"

His eyes sparkle even brighter. "Did you just call me babe?"

She scrunches her nose, abashed. "Don't like that either?"

"No, no, I love it—it's my new favorite thing. Never stop," he says with a huge grin. The nods at the cell clutched in her palm. "What was your call about?"

"How could you say yes?"

"It would've made me look insecure if I didn't!" she protests.

He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Just…just be careful, okay? And please don't take anything she says seriously. She's just trying to mess with your head for fun."

"It's gonna be fine. Just two people who you've been intimate with, comparing notes," she says, flicking her gaze to his groin.

He squints at her.

"Oh, I get it. You're messing with my head for fun. Real mature."

"It's gonna be fine," she laughs, patting his chest assuringly. "I mean, how bad can it really be?"

"Thank you for meeting with me," Meredith says in a beseeching tone as she slides into a booth seat across from her. "I know it was short notice."

"I'm just impressed you got a table here," Beckett replies, glancing around Balazathar's rustic dining room with its faded saffron yellow walls, intentionally scuffed tile floors, and antique lighting fixtures meant to mimic the style of a classic French brasserie—cozy and intimate. A SoHo staple, the Michelin Star restaurant is the kind of place that only accepts reservations weeks, sometimes months in advance.

She feels a bit like a fish out of water in her work clothes, still a bit grimy from her day, whereas Meredith looks like she's just had a fresh blowout and a professional make-up job done. Paired with her killer designer dress, it's as if the redhead is in a whole other league than the captain.

"Oh, I'm friendly with the maitre-D," Meredith says breezily, throwing a suggestive wink at their host as he leads another couple to their table.

Beckett reaches for her water glass and raises it to her lips. "He's cute," she provides noncommittally in an attempt to build rapport.

Meredith sighs theatrically. "Yeah, but the pretty ones are always boring in the sack." A sly smirk curls at the corner of her mouth as she leans in, speaking in a hushed whisper, as if sharing a juicy bit of gossip. "Though Richard's never had that problem—last time I was here, we broke the bed."

The captain chokes on her sip of water.

The redhead offers her a napkin. "Sorry, that was terribly indiscreet of me."

Beckett waves her off as she clears her throat and sets her glass back down, feeling as though she's just lost a battle.

"I must confess, when I saw that article of you and Richard last week and Alexis told me it was serious between you two, I just had to see what all the fuss was about." Meredith smooths her napkin over her lap. "You're a very formidable woman, Captain."

Beckett blinks, once more disarmed. (She's not sure she's the formidable one right now.)

"Uh, thank you?"

"Gosh, I'm just so embarrassed by my behavior this morning," Meredith continues, lightly bonking her menu against her forehead like the whole thing was just a whoopsie-daisy. "You probably think I'm the worst."

"No, not at all," Beckett appeases politely.

"You're being too kind," the redhead says with a self-deprecating huff, plopping her menu back down onto the table surface. "And well, I asked you here because I wanted to get to know you a little better. Ask a couple questions."

The captain scrutinizes the woman across from her carefully. She's not sure what Meredith's agenda is, but whatever it is, whatever war she wants to wage, Beckett decides she's not going to back down from the fight. She deals with killers every day—her boyfriend's ex-wife should be child's play.

Picking up her menu, Beckett meets the redhead's innocent, doe-eyed expression with a sickly sweet smile. "Fire away."

"You're right, he does do that!" Beckett laughs uproariously.

Surprisingly, Meredith is a fun and dynamic woman. Maybe it's the free-flow of expensive wine and the delectable seafood appetizer of oysters du jour, but after a short round of quizzing her on her background, the redhead has managed to put Beckett at ease with charming stories of her wild and wacky adventures. She can see why Castle would've married her—she's all about having a good time.

"And you're very lucky," Meredith says, raising her glass in approval. "Rick's in the best shape of his life—getting shot has really done wonders for him."

Becket doesn't quite know what to say to that, but it doesn't seem to matter anyway. The redhead bulldozes forward, jabbering a mile a minute.

"It's sweet that Alexis moved back for him. You know, when she was in LA, I still didn't see her much. She was in school most of the time, living in the dorms, but we'd do fun stuff together here and there. I really miss it. And I miss being in the city—all my old friends." She lets out a wistful sigh. Then perks up. "It's why I'm thinking of moving back."

Beckett blinks. "Moving back?"

Before Meredith can elaborate, their waiter returns, asking what they'd like for their main course.

"Oh, we'll both have the steak frites," the redhead immediately replies. Off Beckett's dubious expression, she says, "Don't worry—it's phenomenal." Then addresses the waiter again: "Can I get mine done rare?" She winks at Beckett, her teeth flashing in a megawatt smile. "The bloodier the better, right?"

"At least I don't have to worry about her getting pregnant," Meredith laughs. "And George seems like a total peach."

"She is."

"Gorgeous hair and figure. Reminds me of a young Winona Ryder. Though I'm not sure about all that eyeliner."

Beckett nods thoughtfully, swallowing her bite of steak. (The woman was right—it's phenomenal.)

"Gosh, I've just been going on and on. Did you have anything you wanted to ask me?" Meredith asks, blithely picking up her glass of wine.

Beckett sets down her fork and blots at her mouth with her napkin, contemplating her next move. She hasn't gained much ground; the redhead still has the upper hand—it's time to go for the jugular.

"Actually, I was just wondering…what went wrong between you and Rick? Why did you choose to stray?"

It's Meredith's turn to choke on her drink.

"Sorry, that was terribly indiscreet of me," Beckett says with a faux-grimace.

Meredith shakes her head, laughing and eyeing the captain with renewed interest. "Well, well, well—Kitty Cat's got claws."

"You don't have to answer. I shouldn't have—"

"Oh no, no, no. It's fine. You know, being married to Richard was great. Full of romance and excitement. Like a deliciously sweet soufflé. And then one day, I realized he knew everything about me. My deepest secrets, my worst pain. Enough to fill a million novels. But I didn't know enough about him to even write a pamphlet."

"I don't understand."

"For instance, whenever I asked him how he felt about never knowing his father, he would smirk. You know the way he smirks. And then he would throw out a quip and change the subject. Our marriage went one way. It wasn't enough for me."

Beckett narrows her eyes, not quite buying her answer. "So then you jumped into bed with someone else?"

Meredith puffs a small chuckle, seemingly impressed by her boldness. "Look, I'm not proud of how I ended it. I think…I just wanted a reaction from him—to see if he'd actually care."

Beckett tilts her head to the side. "How do you mean?"

The redhead fiddles with the tablecloth for a long beat. "I don't think he ever really let me in because he never really loved me." Her voice rasps a little. "He only ever proposed because I was pregnant."

It's a surprisingly sincere and earnest response, and for the first time all night, Beckett has no desire to "win"—only sympathy.

She opens her mouth to say something consoling, but Meredith just shrugs it off and pastes on a brave smile, her eyes bright and shiny with unshed tears. "Soufflé's are wonderful. But sooner or later, they always fall." She clears her throat and reaches for their dessert menu. "Speaking of soufflés, we should order one."

"Anything she said that I need to be worried about?" Castle asks as she pulls back the bed covers. She's been circumspect about what she and Meredith discussed, not wanting to fully dissect everything at the moment.

"As much fun as it would be to continue torturing you, I love you a little more now."

He climbs into bed with her and brushes his lips against hers. "In that case, maybe you should have dinner again."

She laughs. "That might be sooner than you think—she wants to move back here."

Castle blinks. "What?"

"She says she misses Alexis. Her old life. I think she means it." She shifts, drawing her knees to her chest. "Would it really be so terrible?"

He stares at her for a long moment, agog. "Oh my God, she totally fang'd you."

Her brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know, sunk her teeth into you and got you hooked on some sob story—we talked about this."

"Oh, please," Beckett scoffs. "She's harmless. A bit much, sure. But completely harmless."

"Listen to me, she may not be the best actress, but she sure as hell knows how to play a part in order to get what she wants."

Beckett considers this. Yeah, it's possible Meredith was faking her tears and putting on a show with her whole Aw, shucks routine, but her gut's telling her it isn't the full story. "I think she's just lonely."

"Just to be clear—you're saying you'd be okay with my crazy ex-wife moving back here? Do you even know what that means?"

She shakes her head.

"It means we'd be in a special brand of hell. The hell of a deep-fried Twinkie."

"What are you talking about?" she says with a soft laugh.

"You know, a guilty pleasure you indulge in once or twice for the novelty, but having it all the time…?" He grimaces. "She'd want to be involved in everything. And I mean, everything. Birthdays, family trips, holidays—you name it. She loves being the center of attention. Not only would that drive my mother insane, which hey…that'd actually be kind of fun to watch—"

She socks him in the bicep.

"More importantly," he says, rubbing the spot, "we'd be stuck in a never-ending soap opera of Meredith's own design."

She takes stock of the redhead's actions again—the unexpected intrusion, her blasé attitude coupled with sly smirks, and the sparkle of ruthless joy in her eyes when she pushes buttons and chaos descends. Their dinner, a roundabout seduction—the redhead plying her with lush wine and sumptuous food and systematically lowering the captain's defenses with teary-eyed vulnerability.

Textbook manipulation.

Damn.

"Oh my God, she totally fang'd me."

He throws his hands up. "What'd I tell you?"

"What are we going to do?" Beckett groans. "She can't move back here!"

"Don't worry. I suspected she might pull something like this, so I've already set something in motion. She'll be out of our hair very soon."

She stretches out one of her legs and straddles him with effortless ease. "Big Dog strikes again."

He pauses. Then cries out, "Strikes…that's it!"

"Break in the case?" she surmises.

He glances up at her guiltily. "Yeah?"

"Need to call the boys?"

He nods.

She slides off him with a sigh as he scoops his cell from the nightstand.

"Hey, Espo. Yeah, I know how late it is. I just had a thought about the case…"

As he lays out his theory, she watches him, admiring him from behind, affection surging in her chest.

His ex-wife was wrong—he's not a soufflé. He's…the whole goddamn meal. Just…everything.

"Yeah, okay. Bye," he says, hanging up.

"All good?"

He nods again. "They're going to go pick the guy up."

"You going to go meet them?"

He shakes his head and approaches her with intent in his gaze. "Why would I do that when you're right here looking like an adorably tousled sex kitten?"

Her body tingles in anticipation and then his mouth is on hers and she's purring, "Meow."

They collapse back onto the mattress in a jumble of limbs, breathing hard, their chests heaving; hearts pounding.

"Jesus, Kate. That was…" he struggles to formulate a coherent thought.

"Top Ten?" she ventures.

He raises up a hand, spreading out his fingers to indicate Top Five. A huge grin breaks out on her face. (She didn't even need to break the bed.)

"Speechless, hmm?" she preens.

"Sure you don't want to move in permanently?"

She giggles, hiding her face in the hollow of his collarbone. It's not a serious question—the result of a post-coital high more than anything, so she hums noncommittally as her mouth meets his for an unrushed and easy kiss.

He'd already cleared out a drawer and some closet space for her while she's been staying and as much as she wants to fully dive in with him, so much has happened in the past few weeks that she just wants to be in the moment and not make any big decisions.

Even if she feels closer to him than ever. She just…wants to do right by him. Wants to choose him because it's her choice and hers alone. Not because she feels pressured or influenced by a territorial ex-wife or a particularly mind-blowing round of sex. And she wants to know him more—his deepest secrets, his worst pain. Wants to be able to write more than a pamphlet.

She pulls back from their kiss.

"Hey, why don't you ever talk about your dad?"

He blinks. "Where did that come from?"

She grimaces in apology. "Meredith might've said you don't like bringing him up."

"Well, uh. I have a reason for that, but…it's going to sound pretty unbelievable."

She props her chin on his sternum; deadpans, "The bar for unbelievable is pretty high right now."

He smiles in concession and then gently shifts away and sits up, back against the headboard, sheets gathering around his hips as she tugs a section over her front.

"He's in the C.I.A."

She leans on her elbow, eyebrows skyrocketing up her forehead. "Okay, that is pretty unbelievable."

"I shadowed a female agent for a year when I was first coming up with the idea for Derrick Storm. A Sophia Turner. I actually based Clara Strike on her."

"Excuse me?" (Another muse?)

He scratches the end of his earlobe, sheepish. "I think I have a thing for dark brunettes in positions of power."

She narrows her eyes. "So, what? I'm just like her?"

"No. That's not—" he huffs, his brow creasing in mild frustration. "Look, Clara started off as Sophia, but actually…she ended up being more like you. You know—smart, fierce, kind. I think that was one of the reasons I was drawn to you." Her mouth twitches with a smile. Emboldened, he continues, "And whatever Sophia and I had—it pales in comparison to what we have, okay? You're the only muse I've ever truly loved, remember?"

The grin she's holding back springs forward. "I remember," she murmurs warmly, adjusting her position and moving closer to cuddle into his side.

He drops a kiss to the top of her head as she starts tracing a heart shape on his chest. "Anyway, she told me that the reason I was even able to tag along in the first place was because my father pulled some strings and got me access."

She processes his revelation, something nagging at her. "Have you ever met him?

He shakes his head.

"How do you know she was telling the truth?" she asks.

He frowns. "Why would she lie about that?"

"I don't know. Maybe to screw with you."

"She wouldn't do that. She wouldn't double-cross me like that."

She looks up at him. "So you didn't talk about him with Meredith because what? You didn't want to blow his cover?"

"When you say it like that, you make it sound stupid."

"No," she says carefully. "What I think is stupid is—you're protecting a guy who doesn't even give a damn about you."

She's not sure why she's getting so pissed. Maybe it breaks her a little to hear that he didn't have the father he deserved. Or that yet another person was careless with his heart.

He shrugs. "I think he cares in his own way. He greased a couple wheels to help me when I was just starting out. I only had a handful of standalone books and if I didn't have that shadowing opportunity, I never would've written Derrick and gotten to where I am. And the life of a spy doesn't exactly allow a lot of room for meaningful connections."

"Rick," she chides.

(He doesn't need to be making excuses for this jackass.)

"It's not like he planned on being a father—I'm the result of a one-night stand…so I don't really blame him for not stepping up to the plate."

She reaches up to card her fingers through his hair with a sigh. "Well, he's really missing out."

He tips her chin to kiss her, slow and tender and heart-stuttering, whispering against her lips, "Thank you for loving me."

She strokes her thumb under the delicate skin of his eye, her voice a soft murmur, "Always."

Meredith brings a box of French pastries over in the morning.

Since the girls are still on a liquid diet, Castle whips up a couple of protein smoothies for them, but Beckett is more than happy to snag a chocolate croissant for her plate while passing a fruit tart to Martha.

When she busies herself with the coffee maker, Meredith suddenly appears over her shoulder.

"Is that for Rick?" the redhead asks.

The captain begrudgingly confirms one of the cups she prepared is for him. (What game does the Deep-Fried Twinkie want to play now?)

"You should add some nutmeg. I used to sprinkle some for him when he was pulling all-nighters," Meredith informs her oh-so-innocently. "Gives it an extra kick, you know?"

Beckett resists the urge to roll her eyes as she selects a small container from the spice rack. "Actually—he prefers cinnamon these days." She sprinkles a bit onto the foamy surface of his cappuccino, flicking her gaze to Meredith's in challenge. "Something sweeter, you know?"

Meredith purses her lips into a half-smile and bows her head slightly as if to say touché.

Then the redhead drifts toward her daughter sitting at the end of the kitchen counter. "It's a pity we couldn't go and have a real Parisian breakfast," she sighs heavily. "Especially after you renewed your passport and everything, the actress says louder, raising her voice over the sound of the blender, her fingers feathering through her daughter's long locks. "At least you're all set when you join the Peace Corps and go to Costa Rica."

The whir of the blender cuts out. "Join what?" Castle asks. "Go to where?"

Meredith quirks her head to the side, that devilish twinkle in her eye. "Alexis didn't tell you?"

The writer faces his daughter, perplexed. "So it's true?"

"It's not all set in stone. I just—" Alexis starts.

"But you're thinking of leaving," he fills in.

"I was going to tell you—"

"When?" he interjects.

Alexis quiets, her expression nervous.

"When are you leaving?" he asks again, deadly calm.

The raven-haired girl stares at the ground. "Right after graduation."

'Why didn't you talk to me about it?"

She gives him a pained look, opening and closing her mouth, her words seemingly caught in her throat.

"What's the big deal, Richard?" Meredith huffs a light laugh. "She's an adult—it's high time she flies from the nest, don't you think?"

Castle's mouth sets into a grim line. "That's not what this is about, Meredith. Please stay out—" He pauses abruptly, interrupted by an unexpected cough. He holds a hand up, as if to say one second. But then his cough intensifies into this huge, hacking thing.

Beckett lists toward him. "Babe, you okay?"

The unforeseen onslaught suddenly abates, and he starts to motion her away with a flick of his hand, mumbling he's fine, just a little wheezy, but she stops cold at the sight of a strange mark on his palm.

"What is that?" she asks.

"What is what?" he huffs.

"Your hand—show me your hand," she demands.

Dazed and confused, he slowly flips it toward her and her entire world comes to a halt when she sees a spot of blood, bright and red, smack dab in the middle.

Her gaze meets his in horror just before he collapses to the floor.

Next up—To Love and Die in N.Y.