My apologies for the wait. My good friend assures me that midterms and assignments take precedence over writing and I would argue if my mom didn't agree with her.

Thank you to all those who took the time to read my story thus far. It's an honour.


I'll close my eyes, then I won't see
The love you don't feel when you're holding me
Morning will come and I'll do what's right
Just give me till then to give up this fight

- Bonnie Raitt, I Can't Make You Love Me


Kate Beckett hates hospitals. She hates the gloss of the white linoleum tiles and how she cannot help but wonder how often they are stained red. She hates that all the walls look the same, that even professionals could not find a way to paint an ounce of joy into this place. She hates that on any given day, there are more people coming in than out, and even more who need to be admitted but cannot get in at all.

She has never come here for the miracle of life. She certainly hasn't experienced it firsthand. As a homicide detective, she is a more frequent visitor of the morgue than the recovery wing. She is rarely present when good news is given, and even then it is bittersweet at best. Instead she offers a shoulder to cry on when she has to give the news to a mother, a daughter, a son, a husband that breaks their hearts. She hands them her card, tells them she is sorry―means it― and yet it never feels like it is enough. It isn't.

But she hates even more now that she is here for someone she loves and she cannot do a damn thing. Instead, she stands rigid before a gentle older man clad in a white coat (she is starting to hate that colour) and a stethoscope hanging alongside his tie as he recites the care plan for a mild concussion.

Her grandfather has a concussion.

The doctor, whose name is Dr. Gordon, is a broad tall man with wispy blond hair and a square jaw that makes her think he must have been a very handsome man in his youth. Now he looks at Kate with his grey-green eyes and calmly tells her how because of her grandfather's age, the accident posed a larger concern where younger folks in similar situations would be able walk it off after a bit of rest and some Tylenol. She feels the air rush out of her with relief when he tells her that aside from the concussion, there does not seem to be any other injuries, and the concussion should not pose any long-term side effects. That her grandfather will be fine but they will need to keep him for overnight observation. Just in case.

When she can breathe again, she asks in her best cop voice, "Where is he now?"

"He should be coming back up from his CAT scan any minute now and he'll be in room―"

Daisy comes over to the doctor and tugs him closer to whisper something in his ear, successfully cutting him off from his explanation. Kate is starting to really dislike this woman. She watches as Dr. Gordon sighs but his small smile seems to say he is more amused than exasperated. The nurse pulls away and shuffles back to her post.

"So apparently, someone has convinced our staff that it is imperative for Dr. Reid to be moved a private suite at Greenburg 14 South. We'll go through the rest of the paperwork and I'll let you go see him." He chuckles to himself a little, "Your grandfather must have friends in high places."

She nearly chokes on the words 'Greenburg 14 South' but forces herself to focus. Deal with it later. She strains to concentrate on what the doctor is saying as he goes over the plans for the remainder of the night and tomorrow morning, highlighting the conditions of her grandfather's discharge. She grills him about the medications that he will need to take, safety precautions, everything to do with concussions even though she is more than familiar with them. Personal experiences. She feels Dr. Gordon push the papers into her hands and when she looks down and she is thankful that everything that he had said is written on the paper, including her grandfather's room number.

He gives her a gentle smile and tells her to have a good night before leaving to tend to another patient.

It takes Kate a moment to turn around but when she does, she finds Castle still standing next to the counter with a deep frown of concern. She dips her chin, a subtle signal meaning 'get over here' and he does. He crowds into her space and drops his voice, "How is he?"

"He'll be fine," she plays it cool even though he was there to witness the tension wired into every muscle in her body only twenty minutes ago, "especially since he'll be living like a king for the next twelve to 24 hours." Her eyes narrow at him accusingly, trying to suppress the gratitude that floods through her veins so she can properly chastise him. He really shouldn't have.

He gives her a sheepish grin and says, "Dr. Corwin owes me a favour anyways," like it is no skin off his nose. She is finely aware that even if Castle knows the Chief Executive Officer, someone has to pay the bill for such a ludicrously luxurious private room― excuse her― private suite. And she cannot owe him.

She already owes him so much.

So instead of smacking him like she wants to (or kiss him like she really wants to), she grits her teeth and thanks him.

He shrugs it off like its nothing. But it's not. Not to her and they have been so off kilter lately that cannot fathom how she could possibly deserve his kindness. She will thank him properly later.

She needs to see her grandfather first.

Greenburg 14 South. She has only ever heard of the elite wing of the hospital for their most wealthy patients at over two grand per night. The hallways resemble a fancy five-star hotel with their high ceilings and tasteful art pieces that line the walls. Castle is walking next to her, chattering quietly about how he came to know about this place and why he can personally vouch for their excellent service and care. Apparently, Martha requested to stay in what she referred to as a 'Master Suite' for a night after some secret procedure that he is not privy to.

By the time they make it to her grandfather's suite, the vice around her heart has loosened its hold and her hands are no longer fisted at her sides. She thanks Castle with a grateful glance before pushing into the room.

Show time.

The room is larger than even she imagined and is furnished with more likeness to a luxury hotel than the room she was in last summer. Castle landed her grandfather a corner room with floor-to-ceiling windows lining two full walls that overlook the city skyline. There is a large leather couch against the far wall and a mahogany card table tucked against the corner. Beckett immediately gravitates to the leather chair closest to her grandfather and pulls closer to his bed to prepare for a long night at his side.

If it weren't for the machines against the wall and the wires that snake beneath his bed, he would look for all the world like he was simply lying asleep at home. She hovers over him, checking for anything the doctors might have missed as if she could know better but there is nothing. He looks normal. Letting out a sigh, she wraps her fingers around her grandfather's hand and sits down, her head bowed over so her hair brushes the clean white sheets. She lets the rhythm of the heart monitor relax her, the sound of each beep reminding her that her family is still with her.


He is dreaming. He must be. He knows because he sees the same dream almost every time he closes his eyes.

This reoccurring dream where Kate Beckett is Kate Castle and when she tells him, "Let's go home", she means his loft. In this world she smiles at him until her eyes glow and her whole body lifts into him joyfully when they kiss. In this world, she lets him sleep in on Sunday mornings to treat him with the sight of her dancing around his kitchen making breakfast for his family. He would watch her as she sings along to an old pop song that he would have never thought she would like as she closes a kitchen drawer with a nudge of her swollen belly, turning to him with a coy little grin explaining, "at least he's helping, Castle," as she strokes her hand over their unborn son. In this world, she is his and he is hers and he is so very happy.

But then every time he wakes up, the smile slides off his face and he remembers that she doesn't love him. Every morning his heart breaks a little when he moves his hands across the sheets where it is cold and he is alone. So lately, he has tried to make every waking moment as unlike his dreams as possible so maybe, maybe they would stop. That his unconscious mind would catch up and realize that this dream he used to think was a fairy tale is now a nightmare that looms over every waking moment, flaunting what he cannot have. He hates it because each time he closes his eyes he is reminded of the colossal parallax between his dreams and reality.

Soft voices pull him out of his slumber. He blinks, rubbing his eyes like a child and realizes that he is certainly not at home. He is on a comfortable three cushion couch, his cheek adhered to the leather. He almost groans aloud when he catches his name in conversation from the other side of the room. He keeps still, not wanting to interrupt Beckett and her grandfather's whispering.

"… has nothing to do with Castle," she sighs. She sounds utterly exhausted.

He hears a rough scoff from the bed in response, clearly not convinced.

There is a moment of silence. Castle risks a peek and sees her hunched over her grandfather's bed, her hands cradling one of his as she whispers quietly. Her voice is hoarse like it gets in the early morning before he delivers her morning coffee. He shifts a little to try to catch a glimpse of what grandpa Beckett looks like without giving away that he is awake. When he moves, he sees a brown leather jacket slide lower off his shoulder. It is Beckett's jacket.

She put it over him?

Before he can dwell on it any more (she actually left her grandfather's side to tend to him?) he hears her voice again. "Pop, you didn't have to come," he hears her say. He thinks that it is adorable that she calls her grandfather 'Pop'. "I'm just working through some … personal stuff."

"Don't give me that, Kate Beckett," the older man scolds. Castle catches a slight accent in his voice, almost British, maybe mixed with something else. "I haven't heard a genuine laugh from you in almost a month."

She doesn't bother to argue the fact.

"I just wanted to see you smile again." Castle hears a low hum, coaxing Beckett to look up at him. "Come on Katie, talk to me."

She smirks a little and sighs her acquiescence. "Fine. But only after you get out of here."

Castle grins. It is so like her to make a conditional agreement.

Her grandfather exaggerates a groan but counters with, "In two hours when I wake again."

"Deal."

Castles strains to hear the rest of the conversation as she expertly steers it away from the topic of her life. But the weight of the last few days tug at his consciousness and he lets the dull pattering of the New York rain against the double-paned window pulls him back under.


The next time Castle wakes up he is no less confused than the first. He can usually sleep through the night on a couch― curse of a writer― but when he opens his eyes it is still dark outside. He groans into his pillow and grumbles about waking twice in one night and―

Wait. He didn't have a pillow when he fell asleep.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." The voice comes from above him, all quiet and tender. He blinks away the darkness and makes out Kate's face peering down at him. He colours with embarrassment when he realizes that he just buried his face in Kate Beckett's lap but she doesn't seem to mind. She relaxes and he can feel her fingers back at his temple as if she was just stroking through his hair.

He finds that it is an incredibly intimate gesture. They usually never touch. And now he is lying in her lap overwhelmed by her closeness. The scent of rain and cherry blossoms and something else he usually only associates with Christmas envelopes him, sends him into a wild haze of want and heat and home. It is confusing and it doesn't make sense, he knows. It is all a jumble in his mind.

He looks at his watch: 5:30AM. He groans again and she gives a light little laugh like she didn't mean to let it out. He sits up straight, not wanting to make her (or him?) any more uncomfortable and runs his hand through his hair out of reflex. He finds that it is surprisingly neat already. He catches her eye and when she looks away sheepishly with her fingers toying with the hem of her sleeves in her lap, he knows right then she was indeed combing through his hair as he slept. Who would have thought?

"I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

She shakes her head. "You didn't. I saw you lying down with your head in the cushion and I didn't want you to wake up with a crick in your neck so I um, I thought I'd lend you my lap." His eyes widen at her open confession and she blushes prettily in the dark. "And Pop told me to stop hovering."

He gives her a small smile, remembering how Alexis would kick him out of her room all the time when she was sick. Yeah, he had a tendency to need to help even when it doesn't do any good.

Looking over at the sleeping Senior Beckett, he asks her how he is doing.

"He says he's fine. That in his day, going to the hospital for something as trivial as this would be embarrassing." She tries to smile but it falls short. "I just wish I didn't make him feel like he needed to come out here."

They sit there silently, watching the rain outside and the rivulets race down the surface of the glass. After a few minutes of silence, he turns to his partner. She is slumped over, her elbows on her knees and she is pinching the bridge of her nose. She rarely ever does that; she is more partial to pacing when she gets frustrated. But it is not every day that you get this type of news.

"I'm sorry, Beckett." He is.

She takes a moment to collect herself before looking back at her grandfather's sleeping form.

"He wasn't even supposed to be here." Castle stays quiet and cannot bring himself to tell her that he heard this much already. "He was supposed to stay in Long Island and I was going to visit him in two weeks. He should have waited."

The look on her face is familiar. The same look when she puts away a case unfinished, unsolved. The same face when she has to tell the victim's families that she could not give them justice. Ashamed of her failure.

"Kate," he tries, "none of this is your fault."

She huffs at him in disbelief. She wipes her hand over her face as if she could erase the day.

"If only I could have hid it better," her pain, her sadness, "then maybe he wouldn't be in this godforsaken place where every time I close my eyes, I'm right back in that bed where everything hurts and I can't do a damn thing."

He wants to ask. Ever so curious, he wants to know what 'it' is that she should have hid better and what it was like for her over the summer all alone. He wants to know what that 'personal stuff' she mentioned she was working on. Was it her therapy? Her recent cases? A new next-door neighbour that sings opera until 3:30AM?

He hasn't been around enough to know.

"Can I do anything to help?"

"Would you?"

Ouch. Okay, he deserved that.

But then again, "Would you let me?"

She stays silent for a moment and he watches her, waits her out.

She lets out a heavy breath, a sigh carrying the weight of all her stress and worry of the day. "I had a bad case. The one before this one."

He feels a twinge in his chest and he says it before he can think, "You've had a case without me?"

She nods once, eyes still downcast.

"Oh."

"It's just―" but she stops herself, biting her bottom lip to halt the tumble of words.

But he wants those words. He deserves those words, especially when she won't give him the three he wants most.

So he asks for them, "Please."

It takes a moment and he almost thinks she hadn't heard him but eventually, "I miss my partner."

That is the first time she has ever said that.

"But instead, the shell of him breezes in and out of the precinct chasing after this blond stewardess who is fun and uncomplicated rather than chasing murderers with me."

Indignation flares in his chest. "I think I can multitask pretty well."

"That's not the point, Castle."

"Then why does it matter?"

She snaps her gaze to him, her hazel eyes flashing with something he cannot understand.

"Because you belong with me."

His heart skips. There it is. The guilty plea, the admission of her lie hidden in her blatant confession. He looks at her, really looks at her for the first time in a long while. Studies the glisten in her eyes, the defeat in her posture, the muted protest to his recent absence. Her walls are still up but the door is wide open and he can see now that she hates this as much as he does.

When he answers there is no sharpness in his tone, all the bitterness drained from his voice and petty boy spite all but vanished. He says it like it is just a sad, sad truth.

"I'm not yours, Kate."

But I wish I were if only you'd be mine.