no secret anymore

For Morgan, my favorite jetsetter. Happy holidays, dear!

Disclaimer: Each chapter is a stand-alone scenario but are connected. You'll see how. All take place season four and on; some in an alternate universe, others within the scope of established episodes. Some chapters are longer, others are short scenes. I'll let you figure out the situation for each of them.

"The most important things are the hardest things to say." – Stephen King

She shoots him a quiet smile, shyly hiding it behind the fall of her hair as she nods. "Goodnight, Castle," she says before she steps into the elevator. He catches another smile, the first's twin, as the doors slide shut.

He pauses, alone in the bullpen save for LT and the sounds of Gates in her office, rearranging furniture and photos on her desk. It still hurts even after an entire summer of watching the woman set up shop in Montgomery's office. That pain paled in comparison to staring at his phone for hours, waiting for it to ring, for her caller ID to pop up. It never did. But she's back now, not hiding up in her father's cabin despite telling him that she'd call.

He takes a deep breath, taking in the lingering coffee, stale sweat, and the remaining swirl of her shampoo before following to the elevator. The cab ride back downtown to his loft is spent on his phone, finger hovering over her number. Seeing her again has made the words bubble up again. He was able to push them down in the hospital during those five minutes he was able to see her. He kept them out of his mouth on the swingset as she explained herself. He never released them into the air as she pulled on her dark blazer just minutes ago, instead promising her that her wall wouldn't be there forever.

But he could set them free now. Just a press of his thumb against the touch screen, a quick breath, and three words.

No. Not over the phone. If he's going to bare his soul like that again, he's doing it in person.

He unlocks the front door, dropping the keys onto the side table. His daughter is sitting at the dining room table, books spread out around here. She doesn't even turn to look at him.

Wow. He broke a lot of things lately.

First things first.

He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it over the back of the armchair on his way to the table.

"Hey," he says, leaning on the one clear spot.

She looks up, her pencil slowly stilling on the page of math equations.

"You're right. I do need to grow up," he states as she turns toward him. "But that's why I'm doing what I'm doing. Everything that's happened happened because of me. And I need to be there for her; I owe her that."

Alexis glances down, the tiniest smile flitting over her face as she crosses her arms. "Does she make you happy, Dad?"

It takes him a moment to find words. Because she does make him happy. Happy and frustrated and angry and so fucking in love. "Yeah, she does," he settles on. It encompasses everything.

"Is that enough?"

"It's enough for now." He can wait. Wait as long as she needs.

Alexis nods. "Okay."

He pushes off the table, nudging some of her books as he goes.

"Hey, Dad?" Alexis is smiling, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Don't grow up too much, okay?"

"It's me we're talking about," he teases, touching his lips to her forehead. "Don't stay up too late."

But when he closes the door to the study behind him, he feels the years pass by. He needs to grow up, to close this case for her. If someone puts it to rest, she can move on. To him. To life.

After an hour of staring at the Smart Board, memorizing every detail and praying that he'd make some connection to finally finish this thing, his head is spinning with just a little too much whiskey. And his phone is right there, screen dark and tempting, when he moves into his room.

And this time, instead of hesitating, he hits the call button.

She doesn't pick up, probably asleep. It shoots him over to voicemail and he listens as she lets him know that he should leave a message and that she'll get back to him as soon as possible.

Part of him wants to shout that it's a lie. He left a few messages over the summer. Simple things: how was the weather, what did she have for dinner, how she was feeling. Not a single response.

Still, he waits until the phone beeps into the silence of his bedroom.

It rushes out.

"Kate, I love you," he says, only the tiniest slur between the last two words. No mistaking it or taking it back or pretending it was something else. So he says it again, clearer this time, digging himself a deeper hole because he's already in this for good. "I love you."

He hangs up sharply.

And goes to bed in his clothes.

The next morning, he shows up at exactly eight o'clock at the start of shift. He's wearing the same jeans and black shirt from yesterday as he hands her the cup of coffee without meeting her eyes.

She does let her fingers smooth over his just a moment longer than she normally would.

Neither of them says anything.