3. Admission Against Interest

When she emerged from the interrogation, she felt drained, like the walking wounded - never the living dead, for she would never liken her life or circumstances to the unending misery of her victims and their families.

Part of her wanted to equate the sluggishness she was feeling to lack of sleep or the monumental, laborious effort of extracting a confession. But she couldn't pass by the interrogation mirror - her reflection in a room known for truth - and retreat into the safety of silent falsehoods.

Her truth was that she wanted Castle here; that his absence somehow made the victory of getting Robert Maurer to admit what he had done to those girls less meaningful. It would mean less in the morning, over runny eggs and toast, the only jam on her table strawberry, because he wouldn't be there to eat the grape jelly that had somehow made it into her fridge and never left.

So much like the man himself.

She'd once loved the fact that they were incongruous even on the most mundane of topics. Now it was a reminder that she was constantly unbalanced in his absence; fighting to stand on her own two feet, even as it felt like someone had cut her off at the knees.

She wanted him here, to be part of the beers and the high-fives. To tell her with a simple hand sliding down her arm and grasping her right and middle fingers that he'd ground her so she would not "fade into that good night," as she so often feared.

She wanted to be able to call him. To tell him how, for the first time since she was a rookie, she'd had to step away from the scene and walk toward the river, silently praying their fourth victim hung on to the soothing sounds of nature and not the sounds of madness monsters create during a massacre.

And now she had the chance. He'd reached out.

But did she want to take it? Did she even know how to reach back?

As she walked toward the front door - toward freedom from the encroaching, blackening fingers of Death intent on holding her forever in the dark - she asked herself if she wanted to become Dr. Frankenstein's (or Dr. Parish's) next case. Did she want to reopen old wounds; admit her truths aloud, finally giving them purchase, while knowing that more rejection could still be looming on a murky horizon?

She had always seen them as two charged particles. Sometimes they couldn't occupy the same space; would fly apart so violently that it was impossible to imagine them creating anything but chaos.

And sometimes, they'd circle each other, studying, teasing, engaging, timing, and when impetus and combustion threw them together, it was invigorating, mesmerizing, electrifying. It created something she, in unmitigated honesty, couldn't live without.

What was scarier? The prospect of a life led alone, or the idea of telling him she wanted him beside her as days faded from future to memory?

Would she rather be sorry they jumped together but failed? Or safe, never jumping at all?

She'd tried to remain dedicated in not giving a name to her feelings about Castle. Everything had definitions pending; blank pages waiting for an impression. They were going to have to rip away the constructs, the walls, the assumptions and implications and just talk it out.

Which wouldn't be a bad thing for Castle, given how expressive he was. But for her, verbosity meant vulnerability; ripping meant bleeding. Pain. It was easier to cross a crime scene cordon than it had been to cross the threshold of the conference room to ask Castle for a private moment.

As she flagged down a taxi, she realized that they'd been doing this since he started. Her baby steps never could keep up with his marathon pace.

But perhaps now was the time to follow him, to chase him to the edges of oblivion. And as her jeans greeted the cracked leather of the cab's bench seat, she realized that he had been following her this whole time. Her reading material when he'd called was her favorite Storm book, a faithful friend in a trying time of need. His vest was no longer in Montgomery's office, but back in her trunk, where it belonged.

There were so many things left unsaid; even more left undone. That was the nature of the beast they called life, a monster she'd fought a thousand times. But what was different about this battle was that he could be right next to her - two strangers who had become each other's pillar of strength in times of great tumult.

The rigid lines of her world were meant to be lost beneath the color of his. The combination would no doubt make a beautiful picture.

It would be ordered chaos; an oxymoron, yes, but an intriguing one - much like the man himself. A puzzle worth the effort of putting together.

The thought stopped her just short of putting the key in her lock, her hand hovering above the deadbolt. She never would have thought so…poetically three years ago. So hopefully. So certainly.

So like him.

There was still an undercurrent of hesitation palpable beneath the turning her door handle. It had taken the cessation of his presence - a stinging dismissal that still made her eyes water - for her to even pretend she had the courage for recognizing what he meant to her. She was wading into murky water without mooring, cautious to the end.

She couldn't jump in. It's just not who she was.

Would it be enough?

Only one way to find out.

Deciding to damn the time, she reached for her bag and pulled out her cell, scrolling through her contacts until she found his name.

He answered on the first ring. "Are you okay?"

She had to smile, the gap in her lips allowing her to breathe fully for the first time, it seemed, in days. "I'm fine. It took a little while, but we got a confession. He'll go up for arraignment tomorrow."

A long yawn. "That's my girl."

She wasn't sure if he realized he said it, for he continued. "Tell me what happened with Demming."

She sighed. Right to the jugular. At least he hadn't changed, even as she underwent undefined transformation. "He wasn't what I'm looking for."

"And what is it you're looking for, Detective? Tall, dark, and handsome who also happens to be a best selling author?"

"I thought Stephen King was already married."

There was an excited smile in his voice, and she knew he understood what she was trying to say even if she didn't know how to be that overt. "You're cruel."

"It's four in the morning. I'll be nice later."

She heard sheets rustling and then the click of a lamp. "We should have this conversation face to face. Come up here."

Her stomach knotted, but her voice remained even. "I'm sure the house is nice, Castle, but three's a crowd."

"No, three's company. Come and knock on our door…"

She laughed aloud, a sound so unexpected that she jumped. "I'm hanging up now."

"Fine. I'll come to you. I can be there in time to take you to breakfast."

She pursed her lips and then took a deep breath. "I have to work. Arraignment, remember?"

"You know, they did invent this newfangled thing called twenty-four hour eating establishments. You might check one out. In fact, I'll take you to my favorite, and then walk you to court."

She chuckled, but it was short and rolled into clearing her throat. The pause that stretched between them was taut wire, almost ready to snap, and it ended when he spoke again. The change in his tone gave her whiplash; his voice was strained, barely a whisper. "Or do you not want to see me?"

"That's not it at all," she replied, surprised at the ease with which the answer came. "I just…it's hard to find the words." She felt like banging her head against her coffee table. This was why she had resisted him before. She always stumbled out of the gate, the muddy, unforgiving ground preventing her from crossing the yearned for finish line, which lay hazily in the distance like a mirage.

His tone retreated into gentleness. "Just walk it through with me, like we're working a case. What happened with Demming?"

Taking a shakily fortifying breath, she said, "I acknowledged that there is something between you and me. What it is, I honestly have no idea. That night, I was going to tell you I wanted to explore it."

She should have known he'd catch her use of the past tense. His sharp intake of breath felt like a punch in the stomach, and she hastened to explain before either of them hyperventilated. "I'm not running, Castle. But I've done some - well, a lot of thinking, and I realized that I need to repair what's been damaged. Get our friendship back on track. And then if we decide we want to take the next step, we can."

His words were slow, deliberate. "You didn't say 'partnership.'"

"No, I didn't. If you decide you don't want to come work cases again, that's fine with me. I'd miss it, but having you as my friend - or whatever - outweighs everything else in the importance column." It struck her as contradictory that it had been a case that broke their long held stalemate, and yet she was suggesting it was all right to walk away from the even longer held constant of her job.

Then again, their entire relationship could be summarized as contradictory.

It could also be described as her new constant.

She glanced at the empty austerity of her apartment, still untouched by much in the way of personality, and thought back to late night protectiveness turning to early morning pancakes. She inched further into the unknown, pushing aside her defensiveness the way he'd kicked down her door, before her world had exploded. "I've tried my life without you in it. Frankly, I don't like it."

Her hand was gripping the arm of the couch so ferociously that her knuckles were nearly opaque as she waited in the oppressive silence. She released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding when he said, "So, basically, you miss me."

She chuckled more heartily, and sank onto the couch in relief. "I guess so."

"And you want to take it slow. Talk it out, but from a safe distance."

"I'm not afraid of you, Castle." The unspoken postscript hung between them like the rolls of June humidity uncoiling themselves across the city; heavy and burdensome.

He sighed, voice quiet and laced with hurt - but, she realized, not for him, for her. That she couldn't yet fully believe he'd always be there to catch her when she fell appeared to wound him worse than a full out rejection would have. "I know, Kate."

She wanted to apologize; tell him it's not you, it's me wasn't a platitude but candor, but found herself frustratingly wordless again.

He seemed to understand. His voice stronger, he continued, "Then that's what we'll do: take it day by day. Snails may pass us on the way, but, hey, the world's oldest man is a hundred and thirteen. Everything should still work then."

She laughed quietly, the knots in her stomach uncoiling like an unthreatened snake. "Thank you for being so understanding."

There were no traces of sleep or hesitation in his voice when he answered. "Of course. We…the past few months hurt us. Not just Demming. Maybe it goes back to Ellie, or even to me interfering with your mother's case. You and I skirt around honesty like ballerinas dance with the Joffrey. And up until now, our relationship has been mostly lived around autopsy reports and witness statements, never in the real world."

She found herself nodding. "There needs to be a balance. Us as us, not Detective Beckett and Consultant Rick Castle. It'll be a whole new world." One I'm not so sure I'll be good at. But I have to try.

He groaned. "Oh, God."

Nervous knots tied themselves further inside her stomach - complicated twists she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to undo. She sat up rigidly, preparing herself for the inevitable bullet to the heart she'd tried to convince herself was steel but was clearly glass. "What?"

"Alexis was obsessed with Aladdin when she was little. Watched it every day after school. Now I'll be singing that stupid song all night. Thanks, Kate."

She chuckled. "Anything for you, Castle."

"Now that sounds like it has potential."

She rolled her eyes, but held a contradictory grin firmly in place. "So what do you propose we do?"

He sighed, and she could envision him pursing his lips and tilting his head as he thought. "We consider time spent in the Hamptons a vacation now."

"Rather than forced exile?"

His low chuckle warmed her slightly. "Yeah. And we talk. Take it nice and slow; no pressure. Friends first, then maybe 'something more.' One step at a time."

"Funny. I always thought you only had two speeds: fast or faster."

This time, he didn't laugh. "I think we both understand this needs a delicate approach. A different approach. I don't want to screw this up, Kate. Because if I have to walk away again…"

The answer lingered like a thorny vine, painful but altogether real. "You won't come back."

And there they were, the words they'd both been so steadfast in avoiding. The truth that the wee small hours and tequila could not erase, always in the back of their minds, through serial killers both on and off the page.

She took a resolute breath. "So we just…do what have to. You stay up there and finish your book."

"And you stay down there and save the world." There was something to his voice that she couldn't quite name, but decided to wait on trying to identify it, for she was so far out of her element that she needed to hang on to as much normalcy as she could muster.

She went for the quick, witty answer, easily found thanks to his influence on her. "My cape's in the shop."

"Pity."

"Yeah, it's a nice shade of blue. Really complements my shield."

The silence stretched between them, like the tether she'd been trying to hang on to since he'd left. But where before this afternoon it had been slack, for he hadn't picked it up, it was taut. He was back.

They were back.

She sank back down onto her couch, the warmth coming not from its cushions, but from the prospect of grasping hold of something she'd been so certain she'd lost. She was pulling her feet behind her when he started to speak again. "Think you can solve any cases without me?"

She chuckled. "I think I did pretty good my first time out. Caught a serial with DNA and a confession."

"Well, you had the best teacher."

"That's why Montgomery lectures each class of cadets that goes through the Academy."

He gasped dramatically, as though her words had pierced his skin. "You are vicious before dawn, Detective Beckett."

"Have Gina find you a Band-Aid and kiss it better."

She heard a loud crack - probably his head impacting the headboard - and then a muffled, "Shit." When he returned to the line, he was scrambling to speak before finding the words. "You know nothing's going on here. There. Ever. Been there, divorced that."

She really should have made him squirm, but instead took pity. "I gathered that, Castle."

She could feel his relief through the open connection. "Are you ever going to call me by my first name?"

The first brushes of sunrise started to paint the sky, and she walked over to the small window above the kitchen sink to count its many colors. "No."

He seemed surprised by her quick vehemence. "Why not?"

Honesty is not a deadly weapon, Katie, even though it might feel like it. "You're Richard or Rick to everybody else. I like that you're Castle to just me."

"And Ryan and Esposito."

Damn his pragmatism. Now she was going to make him squirm. "Are you suggesting you want to start dating them, too?"

"Do you usually get this delusional when you're exhausted?"

"Yes."

"Duly noted. We'll start having pre-breakfast poker tournaments."

Her relieved limbs started to feel heavy, sedated, and she had to fight to keep her eyes open. "I'd still kick your ass."

"I might let you, if it's strip poker."

She started to laugh, but it instead came out a yawn. His voice was soft and comforting; akin to him draping a blanket across her body and running his hands gently through her hair. "Go to sleep, Kate. I'll talk to you later."

She walked into her bedroom and drew the shades, thankful she'd invested in room darkening panels. Crawling into bed, she fell asleep within minutes, a smile on her face and Castle still on the other end of the line.

It was the first time since his departure that her fear-born demons didn't force her awake after two hours.