Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even close.

Calling this story a departure for me would be a bit of an understatement. It's in second person, which I've never used for anything longer than a drabble. I like to think that my use of dialogue is one of my strengths, but this story has a very limited form of it. Many of my stories are fluffy and fun. Elemental is neither, but I felt that the story needed to be told in this particular way. I'm not generally one to ask for reviews, but, if you're so inclined, I'm curious to know what you think of it.

Thanks go to ignacio2012, whose valuable insights made this story better than it would otherwise have been.

Earth. Air. Fire. Water.

In the end, what else is there?

Elemental

It should be a thing of beauty.

The gold was taken from the ground, refined in fire, and shaped by the hands and hearts of men into a heavy, eight-pointed star. But there's an immutable law that says that when something valuable is given, something else, something precious, is expected in return.

It's not a fair trade. It's not even close.

The Medal of Honor rests in its case atop the coffin, right alongside the framed photograph and the spray of red roses. Its matching breast bar lies several inches below, where you pinned it to his dress uniform. You were so careful when you placed it there, almost as though you were desperate to spare his flesh any further indignity. He took two rounds to the chest and the cop-killers lived up to their name; God forbid a pinprick add insult to deadly injury.

The green, white, and blue flag is carefully folded and given to Jenny. She holds it awkwardly, because there's no room in her lap for anything but the child that she's been carrying for nearly seven months. You'll share your memories of his father when the time is appropriate. Ryan's son will know that his father was smart and kind, and loyal and brave, and that he saved lives. You won't mention that the witness that Ryan died to protect got cold feet and refused to testify, or the fact that the roses on the coffin are the exact color of the blood that pooled out beneath him and stained the knees of your favorite pants.

So much blood. It's the third time in as many years that someone's been killed right before your eyes. You thought you'd become inured to it, but you were wrong. There's no way to get accustomed to the way it felt when you were pressing down rhythmically on Ryan's ruined chest, trying to keep what little blood he had left circulating through his body while all the air that Esposito tried to breathe back into him kept bubbling out around your hands. You both knew it was a doomed effort, but you had to try.

Castle was the one who got the car's description and license plate number and called it in. The shooter was caught three blocks from the scene, but he's just a hired gun, and he's not talking. You'll lean on the witness again, and on the shooter, and maybe something will give eventually. You've learned a number of lessons from your mother's death, not the least of which is patience.

This is Castle's first police funeral. They're full of a strange mixture of pomp and pride and pain. Tears trickle unabashedly down his cheeks and he seems to be unaware of them until you take his pocket square from his jacket and press it into his hand. He doesn't bother to use it; he just wraps his fingers tightly around yours. You welcome his grasp, because, as long as he's holding onto you, it's not obvious that you're holding onto him.

You cried a few tears at Ryan's engagement and still more at his wedding, but your eyes are dry now. Grief has been a part of you for so long that this sudden, newfound intensity hasn't fully registered yet. Spend your life walking into the wind, and even a brutally hard gust doesn't do much more than knock you off your stride. You know instinctively that, if it had been Castle, the storm would have brought you to your knees, and you wonder how long it would have taken to find the strength to get back up again.

So you cling to each other until all the words have been said and the prayers offered, and the mourners have dispersed into the waiting limos. You wanted to take the rest of the day off, but bureaucracy refuses to wait, and you have to go back to the precinct for a few hours.

You drive Castle back to his place, stealing little glances over at him while you tell him about the things that have kept you awake for the last few nights—the fact that his lack of training makes him a danger to himself and those around him, the knowledge that even a vest can't protect him from a head shot or armor-piercing ammunition, and the cold knot of fear that that forms in the pit of your stomach at the thought of making the same phone call to Alexis or Martha that you did to Jenny. He listens, tight-lipped, as you ask him not to come back to the 12th because, in spite of all the cases you've solved together and all the dangers you stared down and later laughed at, you can't have a repeat of this afternoon.

You can't.

The expression on his face is one of utter devastation, and you mentally kick yourself for not forcing the issue sooner. The delay was selfish and immature—reminiscent of his behavior when you first met him—and you owed it to yourself and to him to make this break a long time ago. It's hard to believe that you once cuffed him to your car to keep him out of harm's way. Now you find yourself loaning him your backup weapon and counting on him to watch your back. So far, you've been very, very lucky, but it's not fair to those who love him to keep putting him in danger just because you want his company on the thin blue line.

The next part is especially difficult, even though you invested a lot of time in choosing the right words. You tell him that you have to stop seeing him at the precinct and at crime scenes, but you don't want to stop seeing him altogether. When he haltingly asks what that means, exactly, you reach into your jacket pocket for the key you had made for him yesterday. It's attached to a little Castle keychain that you got for being one of the first thousand people to pre-order Storm Rising. He recognizes it immediately, just as you knew he would, and takes it from your hand.

He runs his fingertips thoughtfully over the jagged edges, leaving you to do all the talking. How do you even begin to articulate how much the last few years have meant to you? It's impossible; besides, you're pretty sure that he already knows. So you tell him that change sometimes means sacrifice, but you hope this is one he can live with. You and he have spent so much time afraid of developing a personal relationship for fear of destroying your working one, but you've had it all backwards. It's the personal relationship that matters most. You had the key made because you don't need to test the waters—you've been doing that since the day you met. You know that you want him in your life.

You pull up in front of his building and search desperately for some sign from him, some idea of how he feels about what you said. His expression is guarded, and he's still, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words. He finally seems to come to some kind of decision and opens his mouth, but the blaring horn of the car behind you shatters the moment. He puts a hand over yours where it rests on the steering wheel, squeezes lightly, and then puts the key into his pocket before climbing out. You pull away regretfully, and see him in your rearview mirror, still looking after you.

Work is a barrage of reports, requisitions, and statements, and you have to fight to maintain your focus. After several hours, even though you're not quite finished, you call it quits and head home. When you finally get there, you examine the outside of your door carefully, looking for any sign that he might have come by while you were gone. There's nothing to indicate his presence, and you resist the ridiculous urge to knock on your own door. When you unlock and open it, he's there, waiting for you, and you feel a sudden rush of gladness. He grins, puts down the flowers that he was arranging in your favorite vase, and crosses the space between you in long strides before pulling you into his arms. He holds you tightly, and you're the closest to tears that you've been all day.

As you relax into his embrace, he mentions that you looked surprised to see him and asks jokingly if he should have RSVP'd. When you tell him that the fact that he's here is response enough, he murmurs into your ear that there isn't anything he wouldn't do to make you happy, but that he hopes that you'll occasionally feel compelled to share your cases with him. Maybe, just maybe, you can have the best of both worlds.

He kisses your cheek lightly as he lets you go, and you shiver a little at the scrape of his stubble against your skin. While he hangs up your jacket, you notice that he's tidied up a little. A delicious aroma is coming from the vicinity of the oven, and a quick peek into the refrigerator shows that he's been grocery shopping. It feels domestic and strange and wonderful.

Dinner is Italian take-out, and he says it'll keep in the oven a while longer if you'd like to take a bath. It's a perfect idea, and you head into your bedroom to pick out something to change into. A garment bag and a small duffel are lying on your bed. You emptied a section of the closet and a couple of drawers for him, but he either hasn't had time to put his things away, or, more likely, he's still a little unsure of what his new role in your life is going to entail. Sometimes, actions speak louder than words, so you open the bags and put the shorts, socks, and T-shirts into the drawers. His shirts, pants, and jackets go in the closet, and you take a moment to reflect on how good, how right, his things look next to yours.

The tub fills quickly, and you sink into it with a soft sigh. There's a sense of safety and security in water. It muffles sound; it restricts rapid movement; it's a buffer between the air and your skin. It insulates, and it isolates. You float idly and think of Ryan's baby in his watery womb, sleeping in blissful ignorance of the world and its cares, conscious only of the steady rhythm of his mother's broken heart. You wonder if he'll grow up to be a cop—driven in the same way that you were to pursue justice. You suspect that Kevin would be proud, and Jennifer likely terrified.

Castle knocks on the door gently. When you invite him in, he enters slowly and hands you a glass of wine. You don't try to hide your body from his gaze, and, perhaps emboldened by the way you unpacked his bags, he doesn't even pretend to avert his eyes. He disappears again for a moment and returns with a plastic bag from which he pulls several items, including a new razor and toothbrush, and sets them up around the perimeter of the sink. The wine is fantastic, and after he's done arranging his things to his liking, he takes your empty glass, plants a soft kiss on the back of your hand, and goes to check on the oven.

Dinner is simple—eggplant Parmesan with a tossed salad. He's found every single candle that you own and the room is ablaze with their soft, warm light. He offers a choice of flavors of gelato for dessert, but the thought of eating the confection seems a little too celebratory. You opt for another glass of wine instead and sip it slowly while you do the dishes. You wash, and he dries and puts away, and you probably should have done it the other way around because he's always having to ask where things go. When you wipe down the counter, you pick up your keys to move them and notice that they're heavier than usual. There's a new addition to the keyring. The metal was taken from the ground, refined in fire, and shaped by the hands, if not the hearts, of men. Its has no intrinsic value, but that doesn't make it any less beautiful in your eyes. He wants you in his world as much as you want him in yours.

He takes both ends of the dishtowel in his hands, whips the fabric over your head and around your waist, and uses it to draw you closer. He tells you that he hasn't yet had time to clear a space in his closet for you, but, if it's any consolation, he made room for you in his heart a long time ago.

This is what you've been waiting for. This man, this moment, these words. You smile, just for him, and you know that it reaches your eyes in spite of what happened earlier today. He kisses you gently, gauging your reaction, waiting for you to decide whether or not to deepen the kiss. You put your arms around his neck and use your tongue to explore the taste and texture of him, moaning softly as he brings his hands into play and uses them to pull your hips tightly against him. It starts as a slow burn and quickly turns into a conflagration, and, before you're even aware of what's happening, you find yourself sitting on the countertop. His mouth is at your throat, and your hands are all over each other. It's so good, and you were so wrong to fight this for as long as you did.

There's something innately life-affirming about sex, but you don't want your first time to be the same day as Ryan's funeral, so, with a force of will you weren't sure you possessed, you manage to pull yourself away from him and mumble an apology. He swallows hard and takes a moment to catch his breath before kissing you chastely on the forehead. He says that he'll happily wait until tomorrow, or next week, or whenever you feel ready.

Tomorrow. It doesn't have the hot, sweet immediacy of yes or now or again, but it does conjure up ideas like future and love and hope. The clock on the microwave says that tomorrow's only two hours away.

You slide off the counter and take Castle's hand, leading him to the couch and pulling him down to sit next to you. He puts a warm arm around your shoulders as you lean against his side. The tears that you've been holding off all day finally arrive as both of you share your favorite memories of Kevin. Some are tears of laughter, and some are not. You watch the flames flicker and dance and eventually burn out. It's almost midnight. Maybe tomorrow will be better than today.

Maybe it'll be a lot better.

fin