I don't own Castle. I don't own "Poison and Wine."

Title: Enchanted

Rating: T+

Description: In therapy, Kate Beckett reflects on her relationship with Richard Castle. Oneshot Series. Ch. 2: "I don't love you, but I always will." She wonders what she would be if he hadn't walked out of that bank.

"I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back
The less I give the more I get back
Your hands can heal, your hands can bruise
I don't have a choice but I still choose you."

"Poison and Wine"
The Civil Wars

"I thought I lost him."

She pulls at the fringed edges of her NYPD sweater, sitting across from her therapist. The rain beats continuously against the window, giving the room a dark and gloomy feel as opposed to the warmth and comfort she normally feels when she is in here.

"At the bank?"

She nods slowly, her throat clogging. This was the only place she could continuously cry without judgment. If she cries every time she feels like she needs to, her coworkers will lose their respect for her. She can't cry at home – the silence is constantly watching, mocking her. She can't cry anywhere but here. Everyone else has to see her at her strongest – only when she sits in this chair is she at her weakest.

"How did you feel when you found out Castle was inside the bank?"

Kate thinks about it whilst biting her lip. "I was scared," she whispers. She hears the phone go dead with a crack. She sees herself calling out his name – hoping that he would respond. She remembers grabbing her jacket and leaving the Precinct without even telling the boys she was leaving. She drives too fast. She uses the siren.

"He didn't pick up when I called him back. I knew he wouldn't. Trapper John broke his phone. But that was all I could do." Her voice is cracking and she can't help it. Castle could have died. He would have died. "And," she pushes on, "all I could think was, 'Am I going to see him again alive?'"

Her therapist nods and writes something down. The rain is a melancholy backdrop to their conversation. The sky is releasing the sadness Kate wants to express.

"Tell me about the explosion."

Kate looks down at crossed legs. She pulls one of her feet under and sits there, thinking. The van rocks with the wave of energy released from the bomb. She sees smoke and debris. She thinks he is dead. She wonders how she will look after Alexis if he is dead. Her heart breaks into a thousand pieces. But she tries to look calm. She tries not to let the feelings show. She can't show feelings – she needs to be strong.

"I had to be strong," she explains. "I had to be strong."

"Why?"

She looks up at her therapist who sits there, waiting. He asks the right questions – he always asks the questions she doesn't want to answer. Then again, it is his job. He should be asking those questions. She doesn't want to answer. Answering would mean hearing that she is wrong. He would tell her to not be as strong – she shouldn't be so strong.

"I …" she falters. After a sigh, she continues, "I have to be strong. It's a part of my job. I can't show emotion. I can't show that I'm scared or worried or whatever." She shakes her head. "I couldn't just … burst into tears. I was doing my job. I couldn't be weak when there were so many people watching."

She doesn't want to know his response – she doesn't want him to contradict her. Kate hates to be wrong and she hates it even more when people try to change her.

"You're right," he says, surprising her. "You need to be strong when you're working. When people choose the Force as a career, they have to buck up and put their feelings aside." She nods, almost happy that he is agreeing. "However," he blinks heavily. "There is a difference between the job and your life. You know that, right, Kate?"

She used to have a life. She used to know the difference between personal and professional. She thinks she knows the difference between the two. Slowly, she shakes her head. "I know there is a line," she admits. "But I don't know …" She looks desperate, eyes shiny. "I don't know how to separate them."

Her therapist shifts in his seat, getting comfortable for the following conversation. "Then tell me this, Kate," he starts, balancing his pen on this clipboard. He manages to clasp his hands together before asking, "What did you think when you were pushing the gurney out of the bank? What was going through your mind?"

"I thought …" she trails off, biting her lip. "I thought I might never see him again." She feels so small and helpless – she hates feeling this way. "I just kept thinking that we had so much more to do. Cases to solve, banter to exchange, coffee to drink. I couldn't imagine going to work anymore and just not … seeing him there."

God, she sounds like a love-sick teenager.

But isn't she?

No, she isn't a teenager, but she's love-sick, right? That is why she is here, talking to this therapist. She remembers everything – she remembers his confession. She remembers what it felt like when the bullet went through her. She remembers spending all those months alone, thinking about what he said – trying to make sense of it. Because, really, why would he ever love her? Sure, she is pretty and smart and a cop. But she has a wall – a fortress guarding her heart. He can have any woman in the world … so, why does he keep holding out for her? Why does he pick up that hammer and hurl it against her wall when he needs only a feather to step inside the personal lives of other women?

"And if you hadn't seen him again?" She snaps out of her thoughts like a ponytail pulled too tight around thick hair. The question catches her off guard. The question was like a flood, pushing itself against the fortress. She can feels cracks in the mortar and she tries to keep the wall up, though she doesn't want to.

She doesn't want to keep this damn wall up.

But she has been supporting it, building it higher and thicker for so many years. It's second nature to try to dismiss the flood, the question, because it would break the sick masterpiece she spends too much time crafting.

She feels nauseous – she doesn't want to answer. She can't even begin to transform her emotions into words. How would she react if Castle hadn't been on the other side of that explosion? What if she had found him dead?

"I can't even imagine," she begins, her voice surprisingly steady. "I …"

He interrupts, "And what if he hadn't been in that building at all? What if was a case you picked up of a mass homicide resulting from a bank heist-gone-wrong?"

That is easy.

"It would be a case," she doesn't hesitate. "I would treat it like a case."

After a long moment of silence, she looks back up at her therapist. She sees him trying to suppress a smile but he is failing miserably. Why is he smiling? He doesn't smile in their sessions – he doesn't show emotion at all. "What?" She does a great job of whining like Castle, dying to be let in on his private joke.

He gingerly picks up his pen and writes something on his notepad.

"You do know the difference," he replies after another moment.

Her eyebrows scrunch in confusion. Her lips purse into a pout. "I don't understand," she complains, sounding a lot like a child. "What do you mean?"

He smiles at her. "I asked you if you knew the difference between the job and your life. You said you couldn't separate them. But you just did, Kate. You just told me the difference."

A streak of sunshine makes its way across the carpet. Kate glances out the window to see the clouds dissipating. The rain stops falling and she bites her lip, wondering idly if God loves irony as much as Richard Castle did.

She can separate between the job and her life. Because if Castle hadn't been in that bank, she would have did her job – despite the numerous family members that would not be walking home that night. She would have felt bad, sure, because there were so many dead. But she wouldn't lose sleep over those deaths. She could solve the case and move on.

She can separate between the job and her life. Because if Castle hadn't walked out of that bank, she wasn't sure what she would have done. She didn't know what she would have told Alexis. She didn't know what she would say at his funeral. She didn't know how she would have gone on with her life. Rick is not just a boyfriend she loves and tosses aside because they never cross her threshold.

He is already inside.

A.N.

This is dedicated to Marilia11 because she asked for more Beckett, therapy-style session and the song "Poison and Wine" by The Civil Wars so happened to be playing at the time. I just … had to write this. I don't know if this has become a 'thing' but I like writing an open, vulnerable Kate. She's different, if not a little more challenging to understand.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading!

Until next time,
Lizzy