Castle 1. A Natural Progression of Events

_A/N: Hi all! Happy Premiere Day! In honor of this momentous occasion, I've decided to post some short, random pieces I've written recently. Some are responses to challenges, mostly on Livejournal, and some are for a project called the Awesome Ladies Ficathon, where a prompt was suggested and the fic was written from that. _

_This collection will be my hodgepodge of sorts. Fics will have varying lengths and characters and are not necessarily tied in with each other. I hope you enjoy._

For the Awesome Ladies Ficathon; prompt was "Kate Beckett/Rick Castle; she's so much stronger than before/you can't ignore her tonight"

* * *

In a turn no one sees coming, she kisses him first.

It is neither impetuous nor instinctual, rather a mixture of the two; a natural progression of events. There are no words to be said (because, honestly, what _haven't_ they said to each other by now?), merely a sigh of breathless fingertips and the gentle understanding that this is not years' worth of pent-up sexual frustration, but rather a partnership that extends beyond the bounds of trust and the hem of her little black dress.

The miles that have been between them - the storms that have raged - make the deliciousness of the mere millimeters between their mouths all the more heady and exhilarating. The fact that she has always been able to stand on her own two feet but _chooses_ to let him cup her waist and trail his hands up and down the curved muscles of her frame is an honor she knows he understands.

There is safety in the punctuated silence of memorization, of the sweet smile associated with _finally_. The depth of what they have been separately and what they shall be together is found in walking fingers searing tenderness alongside the brush of inevitability he's touted since day one - and she since he walked away one May afternoon.

(The fact that it happens in the same interrogation room where they first met- abandoned while the rest of the precinct protects New Year's revelers in Times Square - just makes it that much better.)


	2. Definition Pending

_For castle100 on LJ; prompt was "wedding."_

* * *

Though they wear no rings, they are clearly devoted to two things: each other and the endless pursuit of truth (definition pending.)

They share a bullpen, but they've _built_ a home on trust and takeout; a safe place for them to inch from solitary souls to partners (definition pending.)

Their love (definition pending) is professed through his hand at the small of her back, and her teasing laugh at his poker table. Their vows are exchanged in coffee and page dedications; bear claws and violin recitals.

He'd called her his "work wife."

Perhaps he wasn't as wrong as she'd thought.


	3. Tectonic Plates

_For the Awesome Ladies Ficathon. Prompt was "Martha Rodgers; there are no small parts."_

* * *

The quiet of the apartment is both morose and exhilarated. The air conditioner grinds slowly and loudly, as though put-upon and determined to let her know it, while the refrigerator hums excitedly, asking a thousand questions per second, mostly pertaining to when Richard and Alexis will be home.

Martha always shakes her head when she pulls the milk out for her morning coffee or evening tea; it's only fitting that the _appliances_ are as mildly schizophrenic (but wholly entertaining) as her son.

She's been thinking a lot about family lately, now that they're separated by geography as diverse as their personalities. Each morning, she leans against the breakfast bar and studies the photos Richard has taped to the fridge; some of him and Alexis, a photo booth four-square print of Alexis and Martha goofing off, and, intriguingly, a photo of Beckett playing softball at the annual NYPD/FDNY grudge match, Richard cheering madly in the background like it's the World Series.

_This_ is the center of her universe. _They_ are her sun and she's the fashionably dressed (with matching gloves and coordinated business cards, natch) moon, hovering protectively. She affects outcomes only slightly, but has been there since the beginning of time, and is ready, willing and able to pass on her hard won expertise.

The tectonic plates of her life have shifted violently, and an emotional tsunami is threatening to capsize the boat of her history - and she doesn't give a damn. She has always been an actress first and a parent next - very much like Meredith, Alexis' mother, for whom the English language has not yet invented a word to fully describe the level of ire Martha has. But moving out of Richard's apartment - away from him and her precious girl - was like acid to her soul, churning and eating her from the inside out. There was no salve for her wounds, no end to the torture until Richard's front door was in her sight line and her key was in her hand.

Then she could finally breathe, and take stock of her situation; reassess her priorities and find an epiphany with the enthusiastic help of her kitchen friends (and a bottle or two of wine.)

She doesn't want to _make_ a name for herself. She already _has_ a name. Martha. Mother. Gram. Mrs. R, as deemed by the boys of the 12th. _That_ is the greatest role of her life; the triumph that garners the most acclaim and makes her proudest. It is an improvisational challenge to the fullest extent, as exhilarating as any opening night on any stage.

She is one of the leads in this story, which is an actor's dream; she gets to read the thesaurus (or the DSM IV, if it's _that_ time of the month) cover to cover, because any emotion she chooses is the right one. She can do anything without fear of reprisal; she can go big and not go home, because here, in this moment, there are no small parts and she is in her element.


	4. Ante Up

_A/N: For the record, I wrote this piece far before OneRepublic's "All the Right Moves" came out. The "king of hearts"/"queen of spades" lines are completely coincidental. _

* * *

He's the king of hearts, jaunty and inviting; a warm shade of welcome.

She's the queen of spades; quiet but cunning, proudly ruthless in her pursuit of starkly black and white truths.

He fits alongside innumerable different deals. She seems to stand alone, often the heavy hand of chastisement. They are tonal opposites, his participation beautifully reckless while hers remains slyly calculated.

But with time, she's started to play losing hands just to keep the game going. Their antes are pushed to the brink, but neither can fold just yet, the cost of gambling and losing too high to risk.


	5. Ghost of Me

_Another one (yes, yes I know) for the Awesome Ladies Ficathon. Prompt was "Kate Beckett; 'I have this breath/and I hold it tight/and I keep it in my chest/with all my might/I pray to God this breath will last/as I push it through my lips."_

* * *

She has to do a double take the day he returns to the squad room; she's spent so much time seeing the ghost of him - and the scorched potential of what they left behind - alongside her own reflection that his actual physical form doesn't register for a moment.

She's in the break room when seconds turn to hours for an eternal instant, and she sucks in a ragged breath, the oxygen deprivation stopping her movements cold. The carafe is in mid-pour, and a single drop of coffee dangles off the chip on her mug.

And then she sees her profile in the stainless steel of the cappuccino machine. There are no unspoken truths or consequences laid there; no haggard lines deepened by the solitude of second-guessing. She's like the mug in her hands; there's a chink in her armor, but it doesn't render her useless.

Admittedly, it took her a long time to get to that Zen place, and it's an unfamiliar, rusted form of acceptance; one that can cut her when she's not careful. But she's never been one to bleed when she has an audience - and she sure as hell isn't going to start now.

Squaring her shoulders and expanding her lungs, she walks into the bullpen, a _welcome back, Castle_ poised on her lips.


	6. Hallmark Moment

_For castle100; prompt was "Father's Day."_

* * *

The weight of experiencing any celebration without his wife dimmed the sun for Jim Beckett, leaving him ensconced in blackness until a clock beeped its - and his - reprieve at midnight. Kate had granted his request to ignore every holiday but Christmas, so he wasn't expecting the firework blue corner jutting out from behind his bills.

He stood in the foyer of his apartment, dreading the celebration that lay beneath the envelope flaps.

He shouldn't have worried.

There was no address or name, just a simple message: _Thank you for bringing Kate into the world, and into my life._


	7. Oh the Places You'll Go

_For castle100; prompt was "Family." Technically, it's 200 words, because I don't play by the rules. Title comes from the Dr. Seuss book of the same name._

* * *

Among gun cabinets and perp walks, four detectives who had improbably become part of the village that raised her sent Alexis off with a Georgetown Survival Kit.

From Montgomery, mace, a security whistle and the name of a Metro cop.

From Ryan, rolls of quarters wrapped in names of bars that didn't check ID. (He got a slap upside the head from Lanie.)

From Esposito, Redskins tickets for when the Giants were in town, in case she met a guy. (He got a slap upside the head from her father.)

From Lanie, some sweet oddities: a stuffed bear (when she needed a friend); Dr. Seuss' Oh The Places You Will Go (when she needed something to read other than organic chemistry); and bright yellow duck flip flops (because the ME knew the amount of bacteria in communal showers.)

From Kate, a photograph she'd taken of Alexis with her father. They sat on a patchwork quilt, playing poker on the roof, Fourth of July fireworks their backdrop. The silver frame highlighted the sepia tones of the print, and simply read, "Family."

Alexis looked up at the detectives who had become far more than friends. "Sometimes your family is one you choose."


	8. Trapped in Amber

_This story's inspiration comes from a promo scene in 3X01, so spoilers are in play here. Read at your own discretion._

* * *

She's drawn recklessly toward his person, but knows she must adhere to the physical barrier as much as the emotional ones.

He is muted both in voice and color. It doesn't unnerve her, for he's always been a shade of grey to her. She was also prepared to see him that way; not necessarily on the opposite side of two-way glass and in handcuffs, but akin to a ghost trying to manifest itself. He's been an ill-defined image in her mind, misshapen thanks to the protectiveness of self-preservation and time.

But nothing ever really disappears without a trace; there are fragments, echoes. She's learned to brush those pieces aside, for they are just a reminder that she's missing the most important one. She leaves the puzzle unfinished, slow but determined steps trying to lead her away from the enigma that is her relationship with Richard Castle.

And yet, at the same time, she's a fly trapped in amber. He's a hazard to be avoided, and one she's compelled to crash into.

But there are consequences for her actions. Dare she open Pandora's Box that smells of May flowers and hopes dashed, or does she don the perfectly sculpted protective mask and pretend all is well? There seems to be no answer to that question, and she is relieved, because it allows her a third option: to do a hard reset on their relationship. A loss of power with no warning – no preparation time – and a notification of error when trying to force it to work. An error that's stored in memory banks for an infinite amount of time, so that if it's repeated again, they have a quick and easy troubleshoot to employ. There is also an alternative; a safety install to ensure it never happens again.

She's not a betting woman, but the odds of her forgiving the fantastical crash and burn of their relationship are, at this stage, slim to none.

Her own basic system tells her things will never be the same again; never "normal." They'll have to swallow the bitterness of uncertainty and being back at square one.

Again.

She sometimes likens their relationship to a chess match; calculated and deceptively simplistic. It's an ironic description, for she always makes herself the black pawns, Death having contaminated her long ago, leaving him to be the white knight.

She blindly advances, not realizing the destruction of their protective barriers. Instead, her queen effortlessly overruns his defenses – did so, in truth, a long time ago – and he lets himself be captured, transferring ownership of everything he has and eventually bearing allegiance to her.

But when she declares the game over, he retreats anyway, sliding off the only black-and-white thing in life she understood as such, and walked into a warm sunset while leaving her out in the cold.

He went where she dare not follow, for he is the mistake she keeps making. She felt at the beginning like she was sinking slowly into quicksand, the agonizing pace serving to remind her how she was moving further and further away from what she wanted and couldn't have.

But she was Kate Beckett. She wasn't going under unless forced – and even then, she wouldn't go without a fight to rival the Rumble in the Jungle.

So she keeps on, moving day by day, back into the routine of "before Castle." And like she had before he'd come to the 1-2, they close cases. Do what they were sworn to do.

She tries to ignore the gaping hole in her side from where he'd been attached so many months ago.

Now the pain has shifted to her chest, and it presses down, rendering her helplessly oxygen deprived for a moment. This is not like the first time she'd interrogated him. Back then, she'd known he hadn't committed the offense.

But today, she isn't so sure.

It's the Earth's natural inertia – momentum deferred for a split second – that has her outside the interrogation room.

She clears her throat and straightens, shoulders back and determined. She still has a job to do; she promised Montgomery she could handle this.

As she pushes the door open, she wonders just how big that lie was.

* * *

The first thing he noticed about Kate Beckett was her eyes.

Bright, but not blindingly aware; instead balanced and inquisitive. He's compiled a primer about her eyes, as they tend to belay her emotions most of the time.

They lighten around the edges when she's exhausted. (That's normally when he gets her a refill.) They darken when she's knee-deep in something; when she is Lady Justice and Atlas simultaneously, bearing their weights and responsibilities – burdens so great men have gone mad trying to balance it all. (That's normally when he gets her take-out.)

Her eyes get flecks of gold in them when she's amused. (To him, these are what is precious in the world – and invisible to ignore. When he sees their reflection, it becomes his sole purpose to keep her that happy.)

Her eyes go black in intensity when she's fighting through a case. (It's most noticeable in interrogation, where suspects fall and are trapped into endless black holes, the truth the only thing that can save them. They try to claw their way out, yelling the final, definitive fact – if such a thing even exists – as a reminder that they are still there, still alive.) The color reminds him of a chess set; it saddens him, for it is confirmation that we are all pawns to somebody.

He stares at drooping ceiling tiles, spotted with water damage (then again, aren't we all damaged?) and wonders how she'd describe them.

The door squeaks slowly, a death knell if he's ever heard one, and he immediately knows he's in big trouble. Everything is gone; not just her magnificent eyes, now dark and angry, but the trust they'd spend so much time building. The sense of déjà vu hits him like a tsunami; has it really been that long since the Tisdale case?

He can't tell just by looking at her. And he's looking, all right; staring right back at her inquisitor's marble cast face, saying nothing, barely breathing, slowly blinking.

With every blink, time slows; there are bells tolling and reverberating in his head. In measured time, they tell him that this indeed is real. He cannot stir but must instead sit unmoving in a waking nightmare.

The accusations don't bother him; it's her eyes, looking at him like a perp.

She uncaps her pen and taps it rhythmically against the closed file folder. She leans back in her chair, seemingly nonchalant, and he does the same, even as his limbs turn cold and tight, and the most minor of movements could shatter him into a thousand pieces.

Pieces that now, he's not sure she'd pick up and try to put back together. The expression on her face is not one he's associated himself with, but instead, she sees him through the crosshairs of disbelief. Suspicion.

They dare not speak, nor breathe; much can be learned from things unsaid, just as it can be learned from sins said and prayed words.

The stalemate crescendos; expands to disproportionate levels so sharp he winces.

She sees his weakness, ways to gather her explanations, and smiles – just briefly, one corner rising in accomplishment and amusement, like the spider chasing the fly.

He is defeated again, and his chin drops to his chest in angry acquiescence. When it rises, she's looking at him intently. She asks about his alibi and involvement with the victim, pen scratching across paper like nails on a chalkboard.

He fades away during her words, during her doubt. Self-preservation, really; he now knows the true meaning of pain.


	9. Unreliable Narrator

_A/N: Since I completely forgot to do so in the first chapter, I must state that all recognizable characters and situations herein are not mine. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended. _

_Just a short piece in anticipation of a much (and when I say "much," I mean long. Like, Tolstoy long. /Alias pilot quotes) one coming your way in the next few days. Set post "Under the Gun," so spoilers apply._

_This is for Meggie. I love you, doll._

* * *

Though she's seated in her car, Beckett feels as though she's straddling the unsteady apex of a teeter-totter, endlessly going up and down; endlessly unsteady.

Since she slapped the cuffs on Royce, it feels as though _she_ is the one being held prisoner. She's in a cell of second guessing. Doubt is her jailer, walking back and forth tapping the bars with a chastising finger, whistling a lamenting song that instead sounds like wind – and sends shivers down her spine.

She wonders how she could have missed it; how, after all the hell she has experienced, she could still so blindly hope.

She grants herself probation and (mostly) on instinct, heads to Castle's apartment. Looking up things so far out of reach, she wonders what the fallout will be with the only other man (excluding her father) that she'd truly and fully trusted – and loved.

But if she was wrong about Royce – if she listened to his stories thinking them true but then finding out that he was an unreliable narrator – logic tells her she's wrong about Castle.

His words are written in pens whose inks are stained with inevitability. The pen cap had remained on at her request, and he had acquiesced, since they had no deadlines looming.

But then she realizes that he'd been secretly writing _their _story all along, and now she's not sure who the unreliable narrator in their story _is_. Him for implicating a happily-ever-after with her was possible when he clearly wasn't done with Gina? Or is it her, foolishly believing his words instead of seeing the _actual_ narrative: that everyone, even fairy tales, can lie?

_It doesn't matter anyway_, she thinks as she turns the ignition over. _He's finished our story and closed the book. Put it high on a shelf to collect a thick dust of wasted time and what-ifs, probably never to be read again. _

Though it wants to yell above its frenetic pace that she has her _own_ story and that she can edit it any time she likes, the city keeps its distance as she drives the prison bus back to her now-familiar cell.

FIN


	10. Perception Filter

_Blink-and-you-miss-'em spoilers for "Sucker Punch," "Boom" and "Deep in Death."_

_Mad thanks to Alamo Girl and MissyMeggins for saving me from my grammatically impaired self._

* * *

**There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception. -Aldous Huxley**

* * *

It's amazing how perception changes things.

She walked into the precinct thinking it infallible, the "thin blue line" a partial false modesty, given how much steely strength shone in the silver of NYPD shields; how immovability and the impetus for endless investigation was embroidered alongside indigo thread.

But now it, like she, is crumbling. Broken and bloodied, never to be whole again.

Sitting in the back of a patrol car, she wishes for her memory to be shattered like the windows of the 12th Precinct's Homicide interrogation rooms. She wishes her ears would remain deafened for the rest of her life, as they have been since she was given not one but two pieces of news that brought her to her knees.

She prays to a God she no longer really believes in that they'll stop asking her if she's injured; it's not _her_ blood that's turned a white button down into a pink striped shirt.

She leans against the black leather seat and starts thinking of what she'll wear to the funerals now that she is no longer a wife or mother, and then wonders if anyone will be draping the matching color over the badges she'd been thinking of so intently before it had all gone to hell.

* * *

It's amazing how perception changes things.

Working in a 911 Call Center, repeated hang-ups and call-backs that ultimately end in a garbled transmission, with the speaker too far from the receiver for words to be anything but nonsense, usually mean a prank or the oft-loathed "butt dial."

Working in a 911 Call Center also includes forwarding calls to Dispatch, and in doing so, she knows the predetermined prefixes for issued departmental phones; can identify them within a second.

Working in a 911 Call Center, she can multitask, pulling up the name of the officer to whom the phone was assigned…

…and identifying the sound of gunfire in the distance.

Then multi-tasking shifts into borderline frantic overdrive, with different hands calling different people; her supervisor, who can start the chain of command, and the HNT guys, because the fact that it's late afternoon means there are cops and civilians inside – probably too many to get out unnoticed by whomever was wielding the gun.

Multi-tasking ends when the phones hang up and the prayers begin that she won't have to stand in a sea both at attention and wavering under the pressure of who they've lost.

* * *

It's amazing how perception changes things.

While a handful is assisting with the evacuation, most of the cops are exiting the building. Panicked footfalls are tamped beneath brusque New York accents shifting into calm authority.

The only people trying to get _in_ the building are the Hostage Negotiating Team, rhythmic and regimented through the fires of bedlam.

There are unconfirmed reports that the shots came from one of the upper floors. They are no longer in doubt when they hear yelling a few floors above them.

When they arrive on the landing, their barked orders to drop their weapons are outmatched by the desperate pleas being yelled to a firmly barricaded door.

They know without looking that the men trying so frantically to cross the threshold are the cops from this floor, and they lower their protective gear. The point man reaches for the one still banging on the doors, but is shrugged off without much thought or effort. He turns instead to the other, and knows the ashen pallor that's covering his face is not completely the result of the bullet wound through his right clavicle, but the fact that some of his men have been left behind.

When they realize the door reads "Homicide," they feel the irony as a sucker punch, one that penetrates both of their shields.

* * *

It's amazing how perception changes things.

Cops – and squad cars – are a dime a dozen in New York. Most go right by, lights on and sirens blaring, without another glance.

_Most_ go unnoticed…

…unless it's headed in the direction of _your_ precinct, and it's not just one car, it's a hundred.

Running up the block at a sprint, they're trying to process the scene with deli fare in their stomachs and hearts in their throats. Not that it matters; they work so well together they can talk without speaking. Ryan motions to the HRT van and Esposito nods distractedly, searching the growing crowd for the rest of their team.

They hear Castle before they see him, and both exhale a sigh of relief…

…until he's brought out in handcuffs.

Immediately and on instinct, they flash their badges and fly to the front of the barricade; how they did it, they're sure, is only going to be added to the litany of questions yet to be asked. They point at Castle, still fighting his restraints, legs kicking in two different directions, as though he's not trying to find purchase anywhere, but instead trying to gain enough momentum to turn him (and the two officers trying to escort him) around to again face the precinct entry.

While Ryan explains who they are and Castle's relation to them, Esposito walks toward the writer, nodding at the escorts to uncuff him.

Castle stops fighting when he sees Esposito, but the detective is more concerned about getting the bracelets off his friend than focusing on his expression.

It's only after Castle's fist has collided with Esposito's face, sending the detective to the ground and his badge skittering out of sight, that he realizes he's never seen Castle quite this angry.

When the truth comes, it brings no answers or explanations; never feels displaced or unfair.

It just hurts – far more than any punch ever will.

* * *

It's amazing how perception changes things.

From the back of the ambulance, Montgomery sees Castle punch Esposito. Ryan intervenes immediately, and the Captain knows he should do the same. But he understands Castle's rage; feels it too, though, he thinks – without a speck of evidence he could testify to in court, mind you – not on all the same levels the younger man does.

He also feels something Castle does _not_; sympathy. For when they hear the story of what brought hell and gunfire raining down in his squad room, Esposito and Ryan will be as inconsolable as the writer is now.

The EMTs and HRT are trying to talk to him. One urges that they leave immediately for the hospital (which will _not_ happen until he sees Beckett come out), the other trying to fully identify the scenario with which the negotiators are dealing. He remains silent, for his injury and the situation are not what's most on his mind at the moment. Right now, the shooter's identity is not in doubt.

But he knows that by the end of this, there will be two shootings and two shooters, and that's when the real crisis navigating begins.

* * *

It's amazing how perception changes things.

He doesn't remember much after those initial moments, probably because there hadn't been anyone like him before – someone whose life has ended but is somehow still breathing. The clock tells him in indignant, staccato-like ticks that he's only been dead two hours, but apparently his Layla has been dead for three days.

Three. Days.

Rage fueled by primal, shattering grief wells like a geyser again, and he roars even louder this time, throwing a chair into an interrogation room door. It bounces effortlessly back to him, and he wonders if this is what the rest of his life is to be: always hitting a wall, knowing the best part of you – the one part that could push you through – is gone.

He can barely see through eyes reddened by anger and anguish, and wonders how the Devil disguised as a detective - currently handcuffed to a desk drawer - sees like this every day. Or perhaps she doesn't; perhaps death and destruction are all she knows, all she's good at, all she likes. Must be, for it takes a…different type of creature to _want_ to be in this situation.

She starts to move, and he raises the gun at her – God bless the great state of New York and their Permit to Carry Concealed. She stops, licks her lips, now chapped as she worries them. He smiles a bit at that; for, though his Layla is gone, he will never again stop worrying. The least Lucifer can do is the same.

She opens her mouth and he cocks the hammer again, intent on making good his promise of shooting her too – and through the head, not the shoulder like her boss - if she tried to tell her that she understood, that she's been there, she's lost someone too. That it wasn't she who killed his little girl; that it was going to be okay if he just gave her the gun...

She shows him her palms immediately, indicating surrender, but speaks nonetheless. After she clears her throat, she sounds more human, so he relents when she asks him if she can have some water. She nods and tries to stand, but he pushes her to the ground, growling that he'll get it. He's got no intention of uncuffing her unless he decides to talk to the negotiators, using her as a shield.

She motions to the far end of the bullpen, estimating the number of steps it would take to get there, given that he's had them in complete darkness since this all began. He nods and grabs a mug off the desk he's chained her to; he reads the name plate and hopes Detective Esposito (whoever he is) won't mind the use of his cup.

Two minutes later, the mug is shattered on the floor and he's falling backwards towards the ground, but never impacts the linoleum.

He cries when Layla comes into view.

* * *

It's amazing how perception changes things.

Cops always find the weight of restraints and a gun on their hip to be a comfort.

She cannot get away from the black of the Sig or the silver of the cuffs fast enough.

She brushes off the medics and HNT for a minute, insisting that she can walk under her own power.

What remains silent is the fact that she _has_ to do it that way. Castle had to help her out of her apartment after the Nikki Heat murders, even as minor as her injuries were. Her physical injuries are even less now, and she has to hold on to that for as long as she can, because she knows the internal scars will make themselves known very, very soon.

It's not the deep sighs of relief she notices as she emerges, nor the faint clapping and few flashbulbs behind the barricade. It's the boys – _her _boys, despite her reticence to call them such – Castle leaning against a squad car, and Ryan and Esposito talking to someone in the back of an ambulance.

Castle runs to her immediately, looking her up and down about six times before trying to reach for her. She finishes the connection mostly on autopilot, and feels his sigh into her shoulder. Her hand goes mechanically up and down his back, for it's the only thing her limbs are trained to do in a situation like this.

He steps away after a moment and runs a hand over his face. She winces internally when he sees his right knuckles are scraped and cut to hell and back.

They'll talk about that later, for she has something to say to the people she suspects were on the receiving end of the blow.

Ryan is white as a sheet (she cannot say _ghost_) and Esposito is working his jaw. Not, she guesses, from the strength of Castle's blows, but instead continuing the pain; self-flagellation for a story she wishes could be constrained by a dust jacket.

When she speaks, it's hoarse and tired and a thousand other emotions, for she's barely said a word since their murder victim's father drew a gun during notification. But it's strong; emphatically so.

"This. Is. Not. Your. Fault."

There will be more words to come later; explanations from her and she's sure, unnecessary apologies from them. But now she just wants to get the hell out of here before they bring the body down.

It's fitting that it's Castle who understands her urge to leave; he can read – and write – her like a book. He hovers a hand at the small of her back, never touching, and they walk past Montgomery's ambulance as it finally whines to life. Past the ME's van, past the victim's mother–turned–widow, past the IA guys who slip a business card in Castle's jacket pocket and tell him to have her call them for an interview, past the police barricades and her own defenses, to hail a taxi.

She can no longer hold her head up, having saved face with the people that matter most, and leans her temple against his shoulder. He slowly drapes an arm around her, and when she has words again, she'll thank him for holding her together at the exact moment she was about to fly apart.

* * *

It's amazing how perception changes things.

Normally, seeing a body bag wheeled out on a gurney simply means a groan, and then determination to fix (if only a bit) the unfixable.

Seeing a body bag wheeled out of the police precinct where her friends work means a heart attack.

She'd been out to an early dinner with college friends, and hadn't heard her phone. She pushes through the sea of onlookers, most of whom are leaving, searching ardently for a familiar face.

She and Esposito lock eyes immediately, and from the guilt she sees written all over his face, it's all she can do to grab on to the barricade as her legs go out from under her.

Javier and Ryan run to her aid, both taking an elbow to help her to her feet and both talking a mile a minute.

She catches snippets: _she's fine, with Castle, deem it a good shoot_. She's surprised when she focuses not on the fact that it was _Kate _who was apparently involved with something that could have ended with _her_ in a body bag instead of some asshole Lanie wishes were alive so she could take her scalpel to him _then_, but the fact that the boys end their breathless litany of half-formed explanations with a uniform summation: "It's all my fault."

She looks between the two of them, and they start speaking in tandem again, though the words differ. She puts up a hand to stop them, and then looks closely at Esposito, whose olive skin is marred with reds and purples – things she knows indicate the beginning stages of a bruise. She motions for him to continue, and when he does, she wishes she hadn't asked.

She's never heard him like this, sounding so…broken.

He tells a tale not of guilt or innocence; instead it's a hybrid of blamelessness, unintended guilt, and un_ending _guilt. Coming back from logging evidence with the Crime Scene guys, they were waiting on an elevator when they heard someone ask for Detective Beckett. When Ryan realized the faces standing in the lobby of the 1-2 were the same faces on the mantel of the most recent victim they'd been working, he'd nudged Esposito to alert him.

Esposito then waved them around security – around the metal detectors - and ushered them upstairs, Ryan standing in front of the faded "Homicide" stencil on their door so as not to shock them. They knew, sadly, that Beckett was a pro at notifications, a combination of how many she'd given and her own time on the other side of the news.

They missed the father's concealed weapon. They missed his volatility.

And then they had headed to the deli. Vacated the building, stepping into the sunshine without noticing a storm was brewing behind them; having lured and left their friends – their _family_ – in the lair of a monster.

Not that they could have stopped it, she realizes, noticing their two empty holsters. She knew it was Montgomery's MO to order his people to a break, and the boys' was to leave their guns in their desks, given that they normally stepped away for less than half an hour at the time.

It all happened in minutes, she realizes. Lives irrevocably changed in mere _seconds._

She shakes her head. Not at the boys' perceived failings, but at the fact that they are so blinded by what happened that they can't see it probably would have happened regardless. Even if the father hadn't been carrying, they'd had suspects before who had disarmed an officer.

Suspect. She has a few hundred _different_ names for him, none repeatable.

They rush through the ending of the story: how an injured Captain got his personnel out while Beckett offered herself up in return (Lanie has a few hundred different things to say about _that_), how Montgomery had to force Castle out so Beckett could close the doors behind them.

She looks between the two men in front of her, and while her heart holds sympathy for Beckett, it breaks for the two shattered souls at whose feet she stands. They will carry this as a burden; an open wound for weeks, if not months. Platitudes – pleas – that they _did_ nothing, nor could they _do_ anything that afternoon will be fall on deaf ears.

She can think of only one thing to say; one thing to do. She takes each of them by the hand and walks them to the curb, where she hails a taxi. "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

She watches (hovers) protectively as they reluctantly enter the vehicle, and after they drive away, she kneels to pick up her discarded purse. She sees a badge beneath one of the

response vehicles and reaches for it. It's Esposito's, and it's a little scraped – a little tarnished – but, she knows, stronger _because_ of its flaws.

* * *

It's amazing how perception changes things.

Normally, there would be a champagne toast for the subject of the lead story on the evening news – _Hero Cop Saves Squad, Entire Precinct_ – but when Martha sees Richard bring Kate Beckett through the door and doesn't recognize the brunette, she knows the term _hero_ carries as much burden as it does pride.

Kate lifts her head and tries to fix herself, and Martha thanks her years of training for her ability to keep a neutral expression. Beckett's wrists are a painful, chafed red, but that's not what draws her eyes to the detective's hands; it's the fact that they are shaking.

She's trying to move them so as not to be noticed, smoothing out her crinkled shirt, hair and sense of safety. The gesture brings Martha's gaze back to a haggard, tired face. Exhaustion is setting in, and her pale color offsets the dark circles under her eyes.

The redhead can look no more.

Martha desperately wants to take Kate into her arms, soothe her like she used to do with Richard and Alexis, tell her lies that everything will be all right. Instead, she takes a small step forward and puts a hand on her son's arm, telling him she'll make some tea.

Richard and Kate both softly utter their thanks, and Martha watches them trail upstairs, sagging against the table against the back of the couch in preparation for the duty she was not asked to undertake, but the job she has done for her son and her granddaughter. The job she will do for Kate because she is family too, regardless of the status of the detective's relationship with Richard. She'll hold them up when they cannot stand on their own.

* * *

It's amazing how perception changes things.

Seeing her father sitting on the floor in their hallway normally meant he was trying to make a drunken world stop spinning.

He was trying to make the world stop spinning, all right, but not his own.

He sat across from the closed bathroom door, looking forlorn. Alexis slid down the wall and took her father's hand, loosening his fist into a more relaxed grip. She laid her head on his shoulder, but instead of kissing the top of her head as he normally did, she felt his chest hitch slightly.

When she looked up, his unchecked emotions – fear, gratitude, grief, guilt – told her more than words ever could. But he speaks anyway, a complexly simple sentence.

"She locked me out again."

Her eyes fly to the bathroom door, and now that she's listening, she can hear the faint drum of the water as its rhythm hits both body and a river rock shower bottom.

She knows he wants to be in there, to assure himself that Detective Beckett's okay; that while she may be bruised, she is not broken – not yet, and that she'll stay that way. Alexis knows the feeling, having felt it after the ME van he was riding in was ambushed.

Her answer is slow but honest. "At least you know she'll be coming out this time."

He half-laughs, half-sobs, and Alexis wraps herself more firmly around him, wondering just who will need to heal more.

* * *

It's amazing how perception changes things.

He always wakes when his door opens in the middle of the night, and waits for the moonbeams to stretch themselves across the room to illuminate the newcomer.

He has responses for all those who might rouse him; plans of attack carefully crafted over many years, whittled to perfection.

He has no response, not even an instinctual one, when he opens one eye and Kate Beckett is standing there in a t-shirt and boxer shorts she'd borrowed from him.

He _should_ have a response, some witty repartee permanently up his sleeve, given how much he's wanted to see her standing in his doorway.

But he doesn't move, nor does he utter a word. They stare at each other for a moment, and when she wraps her hand around the door jamb, he thinks she might bolt.

Instead, she takes a deep breath and says, "You said once that you'd do anything I needed."

He remembered; during the search for her mother's killer. At his encouraging nod, she continued, "I…would really like to not be alone right now."

He nods and sits up, reaching for the bedside lamp, intending to go sit in the chair sitting alongside the guest room bed.

But as impetus pulls him forward, it pushes against her back as well, and he's surprised when her fingers – now calm and motionless (he can barely breathe the relief in fast enough) cover his on the lamp.

"Do you mind…" She motions to the bed behind him. "Unless that would be…"

He shakes his head. "Get in."

She smiles shyly, and he watches her cross to the other side of the king sized mattress. They are both staunchly unmoving as she crawls into his bed, like melting icicles hanging tightly to eaves for fear of falling and shattering. Finally, she lays her head on the pillow, and across the space – across everything that's happened, everything that _will_ happen (with them or the case, it doesn't matter) – he feels her hand brush up against his back.

He looks halfway over her shoulder and can only make out her eyes. In the waning light he can see gratitude, but also…

Safety.

Acceptance.

Resolve.

Her hand slides up to his bicep, and he covers it momentarily. She tugs lightly on his fingers and he rolls over until they're facing each other.

Their fingers link with one another and rest between them on his crisp white sheets, his hand atop hers a promise, even if she doesn't hear it yet: _I will be your shelter, your protector. Whatever you need._

Nothing else is said. There will be time for words later.

He watches (hovers) until her eyes grow heavy and her breathing evens.

He maintains simple contact with her hand through the night; is her tether until moonbeams turn to sunrays that illuminate – cleanse and bless – a brand new day.

FIN


	11. Quiet Silence Defines Our Misery

_A/N: Oh, you _had_ to know_ _an episode tag for "3XK" was coming, right? Honestly, I haven't read any (health issues AHOY!) so if I'm retreading already dead ground, do forgive me. I'm also working on two much longer pieces (in the realm of "Medias" and "Fall") so this may be the last update to this grouping in a bit. But I'll never call it complete; you never know when inspiration might strike. _

_A million thanks to Ariel119, whose critical eye is a gift from the heavens._

_Title comes from "Hurricane," by 30 Seconds to Mars featuring Kanye West._

_For Fenway and Mel; may they get over their colds and aversions to Dora sooner rather than later._

* * *

He stands off to the side as they load Ryan in an ambulance, watching but not comprehending the goings-on around him. He holds it together as Beckett updates the BOLO with the true identity of the Triple Killer and then begins to inform Montgomery of the situation.

The wordsmith remains silent as the pressure against his back increases tenfold; the tsunami of emotion he's tried to dam is breaking through cracks in his second skin of concrete professionalism and self-preservation.

The _whatif_s are a torturous carousel punctuated by music that only sounds like warning bells; like clocks ticking down. The _almost_s are shrapnel to his skin, spilling blood tainted with shades of crimson terror.

(He knows he should sever ties with her in the name of safety, but any amputation when he's already bleeding will, without question, kill him.

She's his phantom limb anyway, so it's the epitome of a moot point.)

He gets a ride back from a responding officer in a black-and-white, hands shaking all the way to the loft door. Finally, he forces it open as though he were serving a warrant like a real cop and not a child playing pretend.

(He can't help but look for Beckett to storm across the threshold as she did mere hours before.

He could use a savior right now, doubly so if she's dressed in a Kevlar vest.)

Instead, he's followed by silence and the thought that there are so many other things needing to be broken down_. _Doors aren't the only things that cross his mind.

Immediately, he's assailed with how quiet it is _in_ the apartment, and now it's all-consuming. The silence is heavy, pressured; suffocating and deadening. He feels like a ghost in this place, entombed away from the living. He's a residual haunting forever running to the edge of sanity on the pretense of excitement, only to back away when the ground starts to give way - but only for a moment, for no one can convince him adventure doesn't lay below the precipice on which he teeters.

He's caught between two worlds, in a veil where no one can see him in either.

There should be two doors leading to shelter, and there are none.

(Beckett had said she'd felt like a Bedouin in the months after the Nikki Heat murders, searching long and far for _home._ He'd known then it wasn't where you lay your hat.

Home is where you lay your heart.

For him in this moment, there's only one place in the world that fit that particular definition.

But in the majestically destructive glow of the afternoon's aftermath, _heart_ doesn't refer to their so close/not quite romantic relationship. _Partner_ has many definitions. He'll take the easiest one for now.)

He feels an overwhelming need to know their truth; hear an acknowledgement that she too is unsure as to how the story will end.

He wants a promise that no matter the outcome, they'll write the final words together, and either walk away or walk off hand in hand.

He wants an assurance that he'll walk in the bullpen tomorrow with her coffee and bearclaw (normalcy when insanity is at its worst) and that she'll see him as he does not feel: standing and whole. A pledge that she'll always pull him from the water they'd sat next to mere hours before.

(Hers had been filled with chlorine and God only knew what else; his was filled with nightmare scenarios. Statistics of in-the-line deaths were weeds wrapping around his feet, trying to keep him under, and any light coming from above the surface was the beacon of a departing rescue vessel, having declared him a lost cause.

He needs to hear from her that he's not.)

* * *

She takes him in her arms the minute she sees him, and like so many times before - times she probably doesn't even know about - she carries him when he cannot walk, guiding him to the living room. She eases him gently onto the couch and kneels before him.

(There are no jokes about him finally bringing her to her knees.

There is just the thought that the guilt – about what his mother and Ryan endured – and the relief that they are all in the infant stages of comprehending their survival are combining to become a maelstrom that will soon sweep his legs out from under him.

He can succumb within it knowing she will be there to catch him when he falls.)

They sit and stare at each other for a moment, him tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, the first contact since they sat poolside. She moves to sit beside him and pulls him to her side, pressing her lips to his temple and murmuring promises about safety and resilience and perseverance that will fade in the harsh morning light of reality.

(They are an attack on his last line of defense.

The levees breach.

His hands shake again, along with his entire body, and tears of what he hopes he will turn into freedom and absolution splash onto her neck.)

He worries not about embarrassment or finding a voice for things left unsaid. He barely pauses to consider the thoughts he'd had while taken prisoner: that she'd find his body like she'd found her mother's, and the blood on her hands - no matter how undeserved - she'd never let herself remove. Instead, his focus remains on how she holds him and he centers himself in concrete reality – that he is here, that _they_ are here, that they still have time.

(They remain wordless for the rest of the evening, even as she tucks him in to her bed, intending to take the couch.

He goes to her when he realizes moonbeams and insomnia simply aren't the companions he needs.

She slides in the bed behind him, holding him to her, and there is finally safety in the silence.)

FIN


	12. Marley's Ghost

__

_A/N: This was written for the castle100 challenge on Livejournal back in December. The prompt was "history." And yes, I did title this prior to all the "Christmas Carol" references in "Knockdown." Great minds, or something._

* * *

Snowflakes catch on her hair and regret does the same in her throat. Wind rushes around her, intent on its destination of a snow globe protected world; a place and a peace she doesn't know how to find.

Since her mother died, the burden of Christmases past have followed in multitude instead of angels, so it stops her cold as a December wind when she realizes she no longer walks this path alone. She has her own shepherds, bearing handcuffs and novels instead of frankincense and myrrh. The ghosts morph into tidings of comfort, joy and journeys yet to come.


	13. i adjust to the lines you're drawing me

_A/N: These are one sentence responses written for, amazingly, the LJ community 1sentence. Blink-and-you-miss-'em references through "Knockdown". Thanks, as always, to Mel and Meg for the beta and to you for reading. _

_**ETA:** It appears I'm not receiving email alerts that reviews are being left on any of my stories. I don't know if this is just me or what, but in the interim, I'll check manually and try to reply via PM. Apologies for any lagtime that may take._

_Title from the Frames song "True"._

* * *

**Ring** Her cellphone ringing after midnight is an mpetus propelling her into an equally dark and still unknowable breach; understanding that Dispatch is also calling him - impossibly sunny even in their darkest hour - is her tether to the land of the living.

**Hero** It's not just the fallen whom she considers heroes; he also (albeit silently) tops her list, because it takes a certain type of person to answer the call - especially in his case, when he could have decided it was a wrong number.

**Memory** They move past their lost summer, but there is apprehension as the pages of the calendar turn; what if their path hasn't been a straight line of exploration but instead biding time as they go around in circles?

**Box** After they settle back into a routine (and she remembers how to breathe), she puts her mother's murder board away one Saturday afternoon, carefully tucking its contents alongside the sense of abandonment that propelled her to put it up in the first place; _they_, not she, will solve it together.

**Run** It's completely incongruous, she tells him, to offer a chocolate croissant from Balthazar after she's just come back from a run; she shivers through her sweat when he tells her, quite seriously, that there's nothing she could ever do that would make her any less beautiful.

**Hurricane** He's loved her for so long that he doesn't remember a time when he _didn't_; she finally admits she feels the same way after they get caught in a torrential downpour coming back from a crime scene and she drags him into the deluge, the raindrops caressing his face just like her lips do.

**Wings** His biggest fear about relationships was feeling like his wings had been clipped; with her, he embraces flight, wanting to show her the many miles they can travel together.

**Cold** Beckett's a little confused when the Starbucks barista wants to give her a hug of congratulations when she and Castle pick their up coffees together one Sunday morning; Castle merely smiles and posits that, though this is the detective's first time at his neighborhood store, the girl may feel like she and the detective are old friends by now.

**Red** She is content despite being apart from the friendly sunset bidding kind adieu in gentle yellows, reds and oranges, because it's no longer "creepy" when he watches her do paperwork; the fact he's rubbing her arches with the same familiarity the sun has when it freckles her skin makes it all the sweeter.

**Drink** She used to wish she could walk into the Old Haunt and leave herself at the door - be someone normal, unburdened; someone who could openly flirt with him and convince him the morning light in her apartment was well worth seeing - but then he looks at her as if she is the only woman in the world (which, to him, she is) and she decides "normalcy" is a dirty word.

**Midnight** She'd long worried they were racing a ticking clock, but now that they're together - now that they're undeniable fact impervious to scrutiny - it appears the universe was just keeping time, waiting for the inevitable.

**Temptation** They try to balance wanting to tell the other to stay out of harm's way (because it's not just a casual relationship) with the necessity of the mission (because it's not just a job); it's a high wire act from which they fall, tension sometimes snapping their tightrope.

**View** She doesn't need or want a private fireworks display viewed from his back porch in the Hamptons, or him arranging for a private skate in Rockefeller Center; a perfect date is Chinese takeout and him introducing her to his favorite TV show (even though, as Alexis constantly reminds him, there are no cows in space.)

**Music** They dance together at Ryan and Jenny's wedding, and she's surprised to find she doesn't need all this - trimmings that last a day - as long as she's got the relationship that'll last a lifetime.

**Silk** With his hands in her hair, gently and reverently massaging the evils of reality out of her temple, she realizes the songs do indeed make sense; they lay together and just forget the world.

**Cover** She, Ryan and Esposito rarely need to yell out their positions, as their trust is iron forged and links them together; there is quiet relief in the fact that she's never had to ask Castle to cover her either, because she knows with certainty he's always got her back.

**Promise:** There is no discussion if she catches a body during one of his readings, or he has to go on tour and can't be in the gallery while she testifies; they have too much respect for the occupations that brought them together to ever complain about circumstance.

**Dream** He'd had a lot of fantasies about her, but none ever matched the simple sensuality of her in one of his black t-shirts, making breakfast while arguing with NPR.

**Candle** They are like a candle: sometimes upright, a steady balance of heat and function, and sometimes burning from both ends, singeing their way toward full-on combustion.

**Talent** Montgomery sneaks him another bottle of whiskey when Castle convinces Beckett to use instead of lose the vacation time she's accrued; when he asks her what she wants to do, she happily informs him they're going on a road trip of all the baseball stadiums in the league.

**Silence** It's a bittersweet moment when he realizes his fantasy of interrogation room sex will never materialize; not because she won't consider it, but because there's absolutely no way she could be _that_ quiet.

**Journey** All roads in Rome lead to St. Peter's; her path of cobblestone truth was laid brick by brick in the knowledge that he is the Watson to her Sherlock, the up to her down and the left to her right.

**Fire** She feels sometimes that they live their lives forever jumping from the frying pan into the fire; those are the times she wonders whether or not he can read her smoke signals and if he'd launch a search party.

**Strength** She told him that once, expecting a joke about implanting a subcutaneous GPS chip; instead, he took her hand and paraphrased "Song of the South": "Can't run from me; ain't no place that far."

**Mask** They'd both spent so much time behind porcelain walls - masks of self-preservation - that along with discovering each other, they were discovering themselves in the process.

**Ice** They'd skated around their truth for so long, fearing submersion and a torturously slow death; when one of them walks away after an impossibly volatile fight, it feels as though the fissures never stopped spreading.

**Fall** But they do not fall through, because just as unavoidable as the fights is the fact that they will always come back, each the life preserver for the other.

**Forgotten** Demons are exorcised when she crosses a particular threshold on Long Island; never forgotten but always respected, because it's brought them back to - and finally - here.

**Dance** Lanie does an absurd happy dance when they inadvertently tell her they're together; the changes in their relationship are so subtle that he didn't even realize he'd started reaching for Kate's hand before taking a single step.

**Body** Pulling back the tarp that covers a body is a moment that knocks the air out of both their diaphragms; their fears, failures, relief and triumphs are synchronicity redefined and as constant as the tides.

**Sacred** He asks her to marry him via JumboTron at every game they attend during their wandering summer; it's only atop the Green Monster at Fenway Park that she looks like she's seriously considering saying yes.

**Farewells** Alexis insists Kate accompany them when they move her into Georgetown; the normally stalwart detective is the first to start crying, because it's the only thing she can do in response to the teenager's words that the reason she feels comfortable leaving her father is because she knows Beckett will take care of him.

**World** He colors outside the lines of her black-and-white world, and for a long time, she'd thought it a chaotic disaster; now she steps back and sees the patchwork existence they've created and deems it a masterpiece.

**Formal** Structure is eschewed in favor of inevitability, while discretion is dismissed from valor; there is nothing formal to them, no rules except one: _live._

**Fever** When Meredith interrupts the fever pitch of Thanksgiving dinner by showing up unannounced, Castle is stunned not by his ex-wife's antics, but by the fact that he actually _can_ love Kate Beckett more; without missing a beat, the brunette calmly asks Esposito to find another chair while she fixes Meredith a plate.

**Laugh** He'll do anything to hear her laugh; it's selfish, but the sound is a salve to his soul after the shrapnel of the world pierces his armor.

**Lies** She never quite believed the lies her parents told her (boys like good girls, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you, if you tell me the truth you won't get into trouble) but somehow on her worst days, she believes Castle when he tells her it'll be all right.

**Forever** He asks her to move in with him as he divides up the paper and she says yes while she pours them coffee; only later will they realize that forever has somehow gone from question to foregone conclusion.

**Overwhelmed** The fact that she is there to both bring him to his knees _and_ pick him back up again is something the wordsmith will never know how to thank her for.

**Whisper** Their hands on each other alternate voicing tales in breathy whispers and fiery screams; it is not a confused cacophony but a fluid symphony they always know by heart.

**Wait** She breaks her self-imposed rule about public displays of affection in the bullpen when he, decked out in a custom tuxedo and two tickets to the hottest show opening in a decade tucked in his pocket, wordlessly takes his seat by her desk as she prepares to take a surprise confession; the kiss is "thank you," "I'm sorry," and "I don't deserve you and pray you never figure that out" all rolled into one.

**Talk** He long ago memorized the tones and timbres in which she speaks (suspects get sandpaper roughed over open wounds, while those left behind receive smooth, delicate diamond words), but she seems to have ten different ways of speaking to _him_; he's both flattered and intrigued...and hopes he never figures out all her mysteries.

**Search** She'll catch him staring at her as though the solution to every question ever posed is written on her face; in a way, they are, because all the important questions he didn't know he should be asking are answered in her existence.

**Hope** He has never really been one to abide by "hope, faith and charity," but for her, he _wants_ to.

**Eclipse** They sit back-to-chest on his vast roof deck to watch a lunar eclipse with the crickets providing commentary and the thick city summer blanketing them protectively; she lets it seep into every pore, for she knows this little slice of heaven - like the eclipse - will disappear as quickly as it came.

**Gravity** Sometimes the pressure of being with each other threatens to suffocate them and they have to fight the polar magnetism that defines them; it's safe to do that, though, because gravity is a constant: it will forever orientate them to each other, no matter how far they roam.

**Highway** They argue sometimes over which is more important, the journey or the destination; they _do_ agree that as long as the other is in the passenger seat, they'll drive forever.

**Unknown** She used to feel like she was trapped in the tomb of the unknown soldier; she knows she will always have a voice, an advocate in him, which makes it possible for her to act that way for someone else.

**Lock** He slides the apartment key onto her key ring without any pomp and circumstance; it's silly, but there's still a part of him that thinks he'll jinx everything if he uses his weaponry of words to give it purchase.

**Breathe** Each morning brings with it new challenges, from the weather to the cases; knowing the day's first breath will always be in the other's company is the best foundation on which they could ever hope to stand.

fin


	14. Nom de Guerre

_Just popping in to say hello and give you a "Knockdown" piece that's been sitting on my hard drive forever and a day. Better late than never...I think. I know pieces like this have been done to death, but I'd still love to hear what you think._

* * *

Nero played his fiddle as Rome burned.

Cain slew his brother as the pyres of jealousy incinerated him.

Richard Castle kissed Kate Beckett as her world tore down.

He tries to tell himself it is a conflagration where she is caught in the center and he's the only one who can douse the flames, but some moments are as indelible as they are definable; where reality is augmented and where acceptance comes in any acceptable guise. Where clarity is no longer a construct but instead a gripping acknowledgement of truth without consequence.

His truth is that, beneath a streetlight of now or never, it's no longer about would, should or could; it's now about _must._ His truth is that this is the only thing he can think to do, because he's got nothing left to _say_. His truth is that he's thought about this moment through the haze of both fantasy and alcohol, when scotch caressed the ice in her glass as he wished to do the same to her skin.

His truth is that the one thing he's run from is now the one thing he's running _to._

He's got a nom de plume and she a nom de guerre, both facades they thought impenetrable until their explosive arrival in each other's lives.

The moment after their lips separate will be his morning after Waterloo. He will curse his lack of propriety and timing but will be unable to deny the synchronicity of it all.

He's thought about kissing her before – a hundred thousand times, in fact – but no scenario born of his enthusiastic imagination ever suggested it would be in the aftermath of an emotional Armageddon. His whimsical side had dreamed of a first official date skating at Rockefeller Center (an appropriate place as any, given their mastery of slipping around missteps and awkward timing.)

His rational side liked the poetry of breaching the large chasm by leaning across the small space between her case files and his chair, when the fading light of day acquiesced to the lone lamp on her desk. It seemed fitting to him to start a new journey in the same place (and yet so very, very different) where their first one started.

When snow blanketed the city, he wanted to lie with her in a snowbank, caressed by stars, naïveté and the comfort of choices and chances and the fact that the sound of inevitability no longer deafens him.

And since he bought the bar, he'd wondered if he'd taste whiskey or vodka on her lips; he can't focus on anything other than her huskily teasing tone or her apparent penchant for leaving the top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned. (It's not that which tortures him, though. It's that she's open, welcoming; the antithesis of their meeting three years ago, and though he sits at the opposite end of the bar chatting with his staff, he somehow feels closer to her than ever.)

He wants to kiss her hello, goodbye, _thanks for the coffee_ and _job well done._ He wants to confirm that they – _this_ – are not anachronisms, trying to date after they've been, in a sense, married for decades. He wants to discover the simultaneously painful and tantalizing life that he _knows_ should be; the existence where "if things were different" wasn't a fortification as strong as her long-held defenses.

But he'll take this, beneath despair and a lamppost, because somehow (as with everything regarding her) he knows she's more herself than he's ever seen before – open, raw, unavoidable – and it's all he can do to hold her in place and tell her to breathe. That he'll take her hand and accompany her down however many rabbit holes she's thrown into; that come what may, he'll still stay.

It's a reset, one he knows they won't be able to ignore. But sunlight is far enough off for his dreams to defy reality.

Kissing her is everything he anticipated and nothing he expected – so much like her. It's dizzyingly centered and he makes sure to take notice of everything – how her lips are chapped from worrying them, how her breath catches in the back of her throat, how _finally_ settles warmly and comfortably in his stomach – because pretending there is no risk and only reward is far too dangerous.

He lets her go before he's consumed and incinerated into ash, but her eyes scorch his in shocked questioning.

For once, he has no words.

fin


	15. Unknown Soldier

_Written for the LJ community castle100. Prompt was "pizza."_

* * *

He's seen them when inhumanity has drained the color from their cheeks; when the thought of tomorrow isn't buoyant but instead an oncoming storm.

He's watched them walk for those receiving news that brings them to their knees. He's heard banter that sweeps away their shattered parts, broken by what they've seen, to the far edges of sanity.

He always makes sure to smile when he delivers their standard order. It's a mixture of wanting to thank them for keeping the city safe, and pride in being the unknown soldier in their army, fighting the battle from the home front.


	16. Somewhere Only We Know

_Written for the LJ community castle100. Prompt was "court." Title taken from the Keane song._

* * *

The halls of justice are lined with rivers of blood spilt and wooden benches warped beneath dashed second chances. Desperate pleas echo on marble floors; sunshine freezes as it's filtered through dirty windows behind which understanding hides.

The building is an affirmation of death more often than not, which is why on the day they go to the courthouse to accept not only forever but the fact that they haven't disappeared like Pompeii beneath ash - that they've not only survived but _lived_ - friends-turned-family cram into Judge Markaway's chambers to hear long awaited and hard fought words: "I do."


	17. A City Built on Bones

_A/N: Um, so, hi. Remember me? Would it help if I stood next to my high school photograph so you can better identify me? __Suffice it to say that real life - moves, blood clots and the perfection of season four, oh my- took over for a little while. I hope the rust isn't too noticeable._

_This piece stems from a conversation in "A Death in the Family" and has references for "Flowers for Your Grave," "Knockout" and "Rise."_

_As always, I would love to hear what you think, and thanks for reading._

* * *

She can't believe he doesn't remember.

She shouldn't let the thought nag at her whirlwind brain, clunky disbelief catching between the grooves and gears. But she's paid to pay attention, to pull up black and white details to frame Richard's colorfully evocative language, and the fact that he doesn't remember meeting Kate Beckett far before she arrived at the Storm Fall launch party baffles her beyond description.

She can still remember the smell of the not-from-a-forest-she'd-ever-like-to-visit-if-it-smelled-like-_that_ pine cleaner the Borders staff had used in their ultimately overzealous attempts to both greet and invite him to stay curled up in the welcoming confines of air-conditioning and a worn leather chair perched in the back corner. It had been mid-July and the city was ensconced in a thick heat wave (later, she will sidestep the heavy iron weight of the irony like a tightrope walker, a bemused and knowing smile adorning her face) and her stomach was rolling as the audience's impatience mixed with the weakening strength of their deodorant. But Richard, focused on enduring the signing only because she and Paula had tag-teamed him with heavy-handed chastisement (oh, how the more things change, the more they just stay the same) took long sips from his water and surreptitiously rubbed at fingers sore from so many autographs, smiling as genuine an indulgent smile as he could, asking for name after name and thanking people for coming out to see him.

Gina had never quite figured out why she'd turned when she did. She'd been engrossed in the buzzing of her Blackberry, and frankly, she didn't care _who_ was in line as long as they paid for their books beforehand.

(There is a part of her – a very small part, mind you, that only comes out in the darkest minutes before dawn – that thinks it's because the universe needed someone to bear witness.

After all, the greatest love stories have to begin somewhere. Who cares if it starts with _once upon a time_ or _remember when you walked up to me in Borders and I misspoke, asking your name when what I really meant to say was 'so what are you doing for the rest of your life?'_)

Phone forgotten, she'd glanced up at a brunette who could have been stunning were it not for the lines more consequences than truths had sculpted into her face. She'd been dizzyingly confused when Richard's simple inquiry as to the other woman's name was met with nothing but silence.

On the few New York signings she'd visited both as a wife and then solely as publisher, Gina had seen fans become overcome with meeting Richard before. But there was a way in which this particular admirer carried herself – the way the sorrow wrapped around her shoulders like a fur wrap, like she'd seen the things Richard had only envisioned in his imagination – that was so unlike the other fangirls. This woman was well-dressed, clad in a black off-rack Donna Karan suit as though she'd used her lunch break to stop by, and the jagged ends of her dark hair sliding protectively against her chin, her professional façade juxtaposed by the way in which she played with something resting near the hollow of her throat. Gina watched as the other woman swallowed, then tightened her posture as though she were working up the nerve to say something far more important than a simple introduction.

Gina's eyes had then moved to Richard, who had yet to say anything in prompt. Behind her, she felt the air shuffle and figured Paula was on her way over to lay bets on whether or not he'd write his phone number on the title page instead of just his signature. But the way Richard was looking at the woman standing in front of him was not lustful or even charming; there was no sign of the telltale mirth that always accompanied Richard's bad boy streak – and if there was ever anyone who should recognize it, it would have been Gina. Instead, it was almost like he knew that this would be the last time she'd take such a position with him; like he knew that from this day forward, a vow made between the mystery and young adult aisles, that they'd stand together, protecting the streets of a city built on bones; that there would be time for as much or as little discussion of history as their self-preservation would allow.

In all the time they'd been together, not even a hint of that inevitability had graced Richard's features, and Gina had felt it like a glancing blow. But later Gina would be glad of it; Kate Beckett turned out to be the one person who had cried at so much more than that, one person who had already loved and lost and could weigh the risks and rewards far better than Gina ever would.

One person who would appreciate the gift of taking control back when it had been so viscerally taken away.

In the end, the woman Gina would come to know as Kate Beckett finally decided to utter only her name, offer a small, sad smile of thanks as Richard handed the book back to her, and started to make her way back to the front doors, Richard's eyes following her all the way out.

(Perhaps the real reason Gina remembers that day is because it's the last time she'll ever see Kate Beckett give up.)

Gina never finds out what, if anything, Richard wrote in that book; sadly, it's lost in a pile of cinder and ash, but in a way that almost seems fitting, given how the phoenix is born in such a pile. In the months after Beckett is shot, the synchronicity is almost as pressingly palpable as the haze and humidity that had blanketed the city the first time around, because Richard never does sign her copy of Heat Rises_, _his hand not wielding the exhaustion, but instead his heart.

(Not that he could ever put into words just what the detective truly means to him anyway.

Not that he'd ever be able to escape the fact that the reason his heart beats is found in her existence.)

In the beginning, Gina had wanted to point out just _why_ Kate Beckett strode up to him so easily in that bar. Yes, the reason behind her attendance at the party had something to do with the determination in her step – Gina will come to learn that the only thing that means more to her than Richard is the sanctity she puts in her job, her faith not found in a chapel or a crucifix but instead with her 9MM and crime scene tape – but the editor can't seem to shake the feeling that with their awkward first meeting behind them, Kate was better equipped to approach him with something resembling confidence.

But with time, Gina's become quite certain the Kate Beckett that stood in front of Richard Castle in Borders then is not the same Kate Beckett that stands in front of a murder board now. Instead, she has replaced the editor as the one who tries to build fences around Richard Castle only to have him knock them back to the ground, all the barriers she tries to utilize to keep him at bay toppling into a pile. The only difference is, while Gina and Rick tripped over the obstacle, he and Beckett are awaiting the inevitable spark that will set it alight – just as they have set each other's souls – and around which they'll tell the stories of all the times they met – the first signing, the first crime scene, the first investigations into Kate's mother's death and then the threat of her own.

In the end, it's not about the when or the where, it's about the why.

In the end, it's just about the places to begin.

fin


End file.
