The night is black.

The stars don't shine in the midst of winter; the moon hides behind the clouds, dark and filled with shadows. The sirens from the ambulance lack their usual bolster of color or perhaps the red and blue don't register as he stares at the ground, blood as dark as the night. The screeching and whirring of the ambulance settles somewhere deep in the back of his mind but he still doesn't look, doesn't move past the shapes the blood that has seeped into the ground.

He thinks of dark green grass and the blinding of the sun; balmy weather and the promise of spring. The echoing of shots and the way his hands couldn't touch where the bullet landed because then it would be real. The dilated pupils and the way her eyes slipped closed like his do now. He takes in the cold, bitter December air and lets it burn his lungs with abandon. There are murmurs of chatter around him: cops, witnesses, late night patrons stumbling out of bars and filled with curiosity. It all slips past him, tumbling into oblivion until a hand lands on his shoulder, and she's lowering herself beside him on the curb. Her hand clasps his, thumb caressing softly.

"Hey," she says, her voice soft, warm. Despite the events of the night she still smells like her, that mix of perfume and the cherry of her lotion. "You okay?"

He doesn't trust himself to speak, so he nods, lets the silence sit between them. She's shivering, leaning into him, seeking warmth.

"Medics think Karpowski is gonna pull through. They'll know more once they get her into surgery."

"Good," he manages. He squeezes her hand, the silky skin that roams over his body late into the night. "Good."

Kate drops her head to his shoulder. The exhaustion drains out of her, her shoulders relaxing. She's still tense; he knows by the way her body thrums, her legs shake, her hands grip. "There's nothing else we can do here. Espo said he'd take your statement in the morning. Come on, let's go home."

He doesn't ask which home she means. Hers, his. He was going to ask her to move in a couple of weeks ago, but it was too soon. Eight months was too soon despite the fact that they spent nearly every night together. Eight months was nothing; eight months wasn't enough for Kate Beckett so he kept quiet that night, took a sip of wine to take away the taste of cohabitation.

He should have asked.

"Give me a minute."

She doesn't question him, not here. Instead she sits with him, the entire world continuing around them. The spectacle is done, the interest is lost. Couples stumble home; college co-eds giggle over secrets shared. Shootings and investigations and murder aren't a factor, merely something seen in movies, read in his books, seen on TV. The lights of the Dunkin Donuts sign across the street flickers; a worker comes out to check it, ignoring the scene around them.

Life resumes; they remain.

She's pushed against her door the moment they enter her apartment, his mouth an inferno against the frost of her skin. He shoves off her jacket and it pools at her feet reminiscent of months ago when she came to him, begging, hoping for forgiveness. His hands are everywhere, rough and gentle all at the same time, and she moans into him because it's good, so good, but it's wrong somehow and she presses her hand to his chest, pushing him back.

"Castle," she murmurs, but he's stealing her words with the heat and thickness of his tongue, the fumbling way he undoes her pants. His fingers slide over her skin and she cants into him, friction and want and enough need that has her gasping. But this isn't him. This is denial and pain and feelings she remembers all too well. She pulls back and the look in his eyes clenches her heart. Desperation and fear and what she knows is the telltale sign of loss. She wraps her arms around him, lips skimming his ear. "You're not okay."

She feels his chest against hers, heart beating too fast and she wishes her shoes were off, wishes she could curl up into him in ways she only can when the heels are gone. He gathers her hair, bunching it up and she almost misses it, the whisper of words that tumble from his mouth that's strangely akin to shattering glass.

"You were shot."

Kate backs away from him and grabs his chin in her hand. "Castle, I'm fine. I wasn't-"

Oh.

This isn't about tonight. It's not even about Karpowski.

It's about her.

It's about two years ago and the cemetery where she nearly lost her life.

She takes his hand and guides him to the couch. She sits, pulls him down more or less on top of her. Their legs brush and she rubs her hand over his thigh. She's stupid for never asking. It had occurred to her that entire summer she was gone that it must have been hard for him. She had wanted to bring it up that first night in bed, but the past was in the past and she had just vowed to give it up. So she remained silent. For a year. For eight months after that.

"Tell me about it?"

Something in him relaxes. He looks up at her, draws his hand over her cheek. "I'm fine, Beckett."

"No, you're not. I know what it's like. To remember. To live with it. I just never - Sometimes I forget this happened to you too."

"You don't want to know."

She kisses him, soft and pliant, the whisper of a hundred promises. "Try me."

Castle leans back against the couch and closes his eyes. Her leg is curled up and he grips her calf, nails digging into the denim of her jeans. "You're my family." It cracks out of his chest and spills into her veins as she moves closer to him, curls into his side because he needs the connection, he needs to know she's there. His head rolls to the side and his eyes open, bare and filled with too much. "You, the boys, Lanie. I wanted to sleep with you in the beginning, Kate." He lets out a rough laugh. "I followed you around because I wanted to sleep with you."

"Told you you wanted me since we met."

"Like that was a secret?"

Kate presses her lips to his neck. "You're anything but subtle, Castle."

He smiles, searches for his words in the silence. "I didn't expect the four of you to become the most important people in my life aside from Alexis and my mother. When you were shot, Kate, when I thought I lost you..." He traces patterns over her leg absentmindedly, thinking. "Tonight, all the blood, the ambulances, reminded me of that."

"For a novelist you're leaving out the entire body of your story."

"What do you want me to say, Kate?

"I want you to stop avoiding the question because you think it's going to bring up bad memories for me." She slowly unbuttons her shirt, bringing his hand up to the scar right between her breasts. She holds him there, lets him feel the marred skin like he does late into the night sometimes. "It's a part of me, Castle. Just like my mother's murder. But it doesn't define me. It doesn't run my life anymore. So tell me. Tell me what it was like for you."

She watches the walls collapse behind his eyes, relishes in his touch over her scar like he's keeping her safe. "I missed you. You weren't gone, you were fighting but - I missed you and all I could think about was what I would do if I could never spin theory with you again. We were fighting before that day and I couldn't remember..."

"Couldn't remember what?" He looks at her like he's not going to answer, like he's going to fight her. "Couldn't remember what, Castle?"

"What it felt like when you rolled your eyes at me, so annoyed and so...gorgeous at the same time. I worried about never hearing your voice again and I was afraid you'd die thinking I told you I loved you because -" His voice cracks, red rimming the blue. "Because I thought you were gone."

"Oh, Castle." Her heart breaks apart, the home of her bullet wound aching. "Why have you never told me this?"

"And have that contrived moment of being forced to remember a past trauma? It's such a cliché, Beckett."

"You know they're cliché for a reason, right?" She's well aware of this; she's been there. She lowers their hands from her chest, resting them on her lap. "And then I recovered and left you alone for months."

"Yeah."

"It was selfish of me."

Castle's lips quirk. "Yeah."

"And tonight?"

"It reminded me of what you do. I love your job, Kate. I fell in love with you because of how good you are, I love doing your job. But every once in a while I remember that this isn't one of my novels. That I can't change the ending like I did in Heat Rises. I saw Karpowski's blood and I hated knowing I could lose you like that but for real this time. I hate knowing I am going to spend the rest of my life worried I'm going to get a call - or worse be there - when something happens."

Rest of my life.

It's one of the many things that registers with her and it feels right instead of scary, like this is where she belongs. She throws a leg over his waist, climbs on top of him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck. "I can't promise you nothing will happen. But if we're lucky, we'll get another fifty years of close calls and near misses and us."

The smile splits across his face. "You realize what that sounds like right?"

"Calm down, Castle. We have a few steps to take before that." Her lips touch his, rocks in his lap. It's lacking the rush of earlier, nothing but the need to be close to him, to feel him. "I'm so sorry," she breathes. "About all of it."

"I don't want to relive the rest of it. Not tonight." He brushes his nose over her neck. "I hope you know that whatever happened after you were shot, I forgave you a long time ago. You just have to give me this sometimes, Kate. You have to let me mourn that day."

That she understands. Mourning what was. What could have been.

"But we're fine. I'm fine."

She doesn't know if it's the way his hands roam over her back or the panic lost from his voice, but this time she believes him.

This time she lets it go.