It was cold. The wind was brutal, funneling through streets and twisting along alleys, branding the skin with a burning chill. Beckett dropped a leg to support the weight of her Harley Softail as she waited on a red light, welcoming the moment to cup her frozen fingers around her lips and blast them with warm air in an attempt to resuscitate their blood flow. It was a futile attempt. She cursed softly to herself and stretched her shirtsleeves beyond the cuffs of her leather jacket, gripping them around her fists before shoving her hands into her armpits. There was no residual warmth in the chilled skin of the jacket, but at least it sheltered them from the wind.

Somehow, she had misplaced her gloves throughout the course of the day. She always stuffed them into the pockets of her bike jacket when she entered the precinct in the morning, but when she had dropped her hands to her pockets in the precinct garage tonight she had come up empty. Despite retracing her steps through homicide she had failed to locate them: another testament to the unraveling of her structured composure this week.

The light turned and traffic flowed, and Beckett gritted her teeth as she returned her hands to the icy handles and rolled back on the throttle. It was nearing seven o'clock and the sun had set hours ago, abandoning its attempt to warm the city air. She managed to keep the edges of her sleeves pulled over her fingers, but the thin material was useless against the slicing headwind. Her physical misery exacerbated the desperate feelings of frailty and uncertainty roiling through her, setting her further on edge and causing her to bitterly question why the fates hated her. She was exhausted. Frustrated. Freezing.

Monday she had stayed at the precinct and worked through the night to avoid the nightmares that always accompanied the flashbacks. Tuesday she had forced herself home but only managed a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. This morning she had opted for the bike commute on a whim; the slight adrenaline kick and rush of cold air had sharpened her senses and brought back a sense of control.

Until Castle had marched in, unbidden, and set her emotions off into an uncontrolled tailspin.

Her flashbacks always left her reeling for a few days. It was unfortunate for him that he happened to be at the center of her most recent episode; that he was the rock that disturbed the waters. But if it was merely the emotional hiccups caused by her PTSD, she could handle it. No; it was more than that. It was that and their partnership; that and a stolen kiss that still tingled across her lips; that and a freezer, a dirty bomb, a hangar, a sniper. That and moment in a graveyard which changed everything. That and the lie she spoke, burying the truth where it tortured her with each of his patient stares, his questioning eyes, his trusting confidence in her.

Their convoluted relationship was enough to set off any woman's emotional equilibrium. Throw in her heavy past with her present flashbacks and the situation approached insanity. Because she couldn't discern how she felt. Couldn't separate her ache for him from the scars of past lovers: men she had trusted, confided in; men that had betrayed her loyalties and built the scar tissue protecting her heart. Will, Royce...her captain. And Castle. Her logic failed to navigate the emotional jungle within her; she couldn't see the stars through the trees.

The bike sputtered and died as Beckett reversed the key in the ignition, parking it below her apartment. She didn't bother removing her helmet as she made her way up the stairs and down the hall to her door, pressing her clawed knuckles against her sides in a desperate effort to loosen their frozen joints. On the second attempt to open her door she decided it was time to retire the bike for the winter; on the third she decided she may not bring it out of storage until August.

The keys slipped and fell to the floor. She cursed again and bent to retrieve them, knocking her helmet against the doorknob on the way down and throwing herself off balance, banging her knuckles into the doorframe as she tried to catch herself before finally dropping heavily onto one knee.

She stayed there, drawing a ragged breath. Nothing was simple anymore. She'd been overwhelmed all day, experiencing everything from anger to hopelessness to frustration to apathy in never-ending cycles. She just wanted sleep: a respite from reality.

Damn these emotions. Sometimes, she hated being a woman. Damn these flashbacks, this PTSD, these uncontrollable feelings she had for her partner. She rested her helmet in the angle made by the frame meeting the door, her forehead pressing into the padding as she leaned her weight forward and squeezed her eyes shut, using the pressure to keep it all in and force back the frustration.

She wouldn't cry.

She could make it until tomorrow. Tomorrow morning she would go see her therapist; have him untangle her, help her navigate this nightmare. She centered herself on that thought and opened her eyes, dragging her fingers across her keys. She wouldn't break down here; she just had to hold out till the morning. But she was on thin ice; spidered and cracking and dangerously slick.

Finally gaining entry, she dropped her keys in the bowl near the door, hauled off her helmet and wrestled out of her jacket before making a beeline for the kitchen sink. Turning on the water, she stuck her elbow in to test the temperature before plunging her hands beneath the warm cascade. Bent at the waist, resting her forearms on the sink edge, she hung her head in relief and fatigue. She was going to bed as soon as possible tonight. Hopefully her body would shut down from sheer exhaustion and emotional overload. Perhaps she would take her trazadone tonight - a sleep med prescribed by her therapist - but probably not. She hated the residual drugged feeling when she woke in the morning. But, if she went to bed by eight...her brain ticked through the hours...the medication would be out of her system by the time she woke. So she could. She was desperate enough.

After an indeterminate amount of time, her knees began to protest her position over the sink, reminding her she had yet to remove her heels. She waited another few minutes before reluctantly drawing her hands out of the delicious heat and reaching for a dish towel. Stepping to the kitchen entry, she reached down and unzipped her boots before standing and using one shoe to remove the other, kicking them into the adjacent room in the general direction of her jacket lying haphazardly across the couch. She was beyond caring.

Opening the fridge, she growled in frustration. She hadn't restocked over the weekend. Her eyes fell on a nondescript styrofoam box; Italian leftovers from Sunday night's dinner. Grabbing at it, she dumped the contents onto a plate and shoved it into the microwave before walking off to locate the trazadone. She'd take one now to give it time to kick in before bedtime.

Half way through her penne in cheesy marinara sauce, there was a knock on the door.

Beckett stopped chewing and raised her head, her fork hovering over her plate, suddenly grateful she hadn't bothered to remove her Sig from her waist holster. Her tired, tense brain had been ravage by her emotions and assumed the worst. She shouldn't have taken that sleeping pill.

If it was an intruder, the next noise would be splintering wood, or a scratching in the lock. She strained her hearing, the food suddenly awkward and dry in her mouth.

But all she heard was another knock, a little bolder this time. So it probably wasn't anyone dangerous. Cautiously, she finished chewing and slowly rose, silencing her movements just in case.

Sliding towards the hinge side of her front door, she removed her gun with one hand as she reached the peephole and glanced through. The adrenaline drained rapidly out of her as she caught sight of Castle, looking cold and playing with his phone.

She couldn't deal with this right now. Maybe tomorrow, after she had gotten some sleep and talked with her therapist; but not now. Not when the ice was cracking and that sudden tide of adrenaline had left her brittle and near breaking. She drew an indecisive breath, briefly contemplating ignoring him and immediately feeling terribly guilty about that impulse.

Castle's ringtone shattered the silence from the pocket of her jeans, causing her to startle violently. She had maxed the volume on her phone for her bike ride and forgotten to re-adjust it; no way he hadn't heard the tones through the door.

She holstered her gun before twisting the knob and stepping back as she opened the door.

"Beckett, hey - I was just calling you."

She feigned nonchalance. "Sorry, I was in the other room. What's going on?" He better be quick - she was going to be knocked out in another thirty minutes or so, and she still needed a shower.

"I uh-" he reached into his jacket pockets "-found these."

She stared at her gloves. "Where?"

"Well, I sort of just realized I had them."

"YOU had them?"

"Sorry - I found them by the expresso machine this morning and put them in my pocket to return them to you -because I was using both my hands to carry our coffee- but then I...got distracted and forgot I had them when I left." He paused briefly, checking his ramble. "I just discovered them after dinner."

He was holding them close to his body instead of offering them to her for a quick drop-off.

"You came all the way over here just to return them? You could have just called."

He shrugged. "I was returning from dinner anyway. It was on the way."

She didn't buy it.

"Can I come in?"

Several phrases shot through her brain: a dozen excuses, all variations of "Hell no you can't!" But she merely stuttered slightly and moved back as he stepped forward in the face of her hesitation, surprising her with his assertive boldness. She saw him take in her apartment in one sweep; the garments haphazardly strewn about, the styrofoam box on the counter, her half-eaten dinner waiting on the table. She shut the door and turned back to find him facing her.

"Any new developments on our stiffs?"

She shrugged. "No new hits on the sketch for the DiMassou case, not yet. The kid wasn't as helpful as we had hoped. And the Hammond murder...not much that you don't already know. We did get a subpoena for the court documents we requested, though. You know that ongoing legal case she opened two years ago, where she prosecuted her cousin in an inheritance dispute?"

"Yeah?"

"Her husband testified against her."

"He didn't mention that in our interview."

"Yeah, or the fact that it was actually his cousin, not hers."

"Oh ho...her marriage goes bad and she went after ALL their money."

Beckett relaxed slightly. She could talk about work. Logic and theory. Easy. "It gets better. Apparently, her family and his family share a common ancestor a few generations back. He was a steel tycoon - his inheritance launched their respective families into wealth. Meaning she might have had a shot at winning since she was, legally, a blood descendant."

"Whoah! Family feud!"

"Maybe. Gives us somewhere to start looking."

"Why not arrest the husband?"

"Alibi, remember?"

"But it's so obvious; even if he didn't pull the trigger I can guarantee you he was behind it." He wagged her gloves in her face, and she grabbed them out of his hand.

"I thought you'd learned about our process of collecting evidence by now."

"Yeah, but I got a smile." he said, lifting a corner of his mouth.

Damn it. Emotions.

Beckett looked down, smoothed her gloves. Realized how hard she'd been on him over the past few days. "I'm sorry. About today. I hope you got some writing done."

"Not really."

She tensed her jaw and looked off to the left, fighting the guilt and turmoil that suddenly accosted her, tightening her throat and twisting her gut. He needed to leave. Now. Before she lost control.

Instead, he reached back beneath his jacket and drew out a modest bouquet of flowers. "I thought this might, I don't know, help. Couldn't think of anything else."

Everything within her clenched; she felt nauseous and flushed and ice cold as she stared at the bright petals, unable to breathe.

He stepped into her space, the flowers between them. "You know it's not about the books anymore, Kate."

No, Castle. Don't say it.

The silence stretched, and she slowly raised her hand, brought her fingers around the ribbon-wrapped stems above his grip. He released the bouquet, but brought his palm around her knuckles, his fingertips feather-light on the back of her hand, barely caressing the skin.

"I'm trying to understand." The tenderness in his voice was breaking her, pounding on the thin ice she balanced upon.

She moved her hand back and stepped away, needing the distance. She wouldn't cry.

"But it's hard when I don't get much back, you know?" His face was open, asking.

She heaved a breath and survived another wave of overwhelming pressure. "Castle, stop."

"I can't."

She looked at him briefly, caught the intense seriousness in his stare, the storm in his eyes, the determined line of his jaw. She wasn't the only one fighting emotion.

"Kate, I can't keep playing this game. I follow you around from case to case. I dodge bullets with you, I hold you in my arms when we don't have a chance. I follow you every week now; I watch you struggle and pick yourself up and fight this all on your own. And I'm not allowed to speak, not allowed to touch, not allowed to acknowledge the ache that we both carry. You tell me to wait, and I do, I have, I've waited and followed and cried for you and I don't know what else to do." His voice cracked on the last note. "It's not enough anymore. Can you see?"

Somehow, sometime after Royce and before Demming, she had made the subconscious decision that men would only date Detective Beckett: her stronger half. She laughed with them, slept with them, fought with them - but she never cried with them. Never revealed how deep her scars really were.

But with Castle, it was all backwards.

She was going to cry.

"How long do I have to wait before you admit you want this?"

She did want this, wanted it so badly. He knew that, right? She was doing everything in her power so she could keep this one. So their relationship could survive her past.

"Kate?" he was starting to sound panicked.

She needed to say something, but the words were stuck behind the tears of frustration building within her. She dropped her head to hide her furious blinking as she struggled for control, searched for words. He was springing this too soon, with terrible timing; she wasn't ready - still drowning in her own anxiety and incertitude.

"Say something, damn it!"

He needed to know. He had to know.

She dropped the flowers and stepped forward in two rapid strides, reaching to grab the sides of his face with her hands. She caught a glimpse of his startled eyes before her lips closed the distance and landed over his, hard and desperate and speaking the words she couldn't form. Hoping the action would distract the tears and ease the aching in her soul.

She realized her plan had failed as he kissed her back: gently, caressing, absorbing her recklessness and refusing to battle. She felt his fingers slip beneath her hair and the warmth of his palm wrap around the curve of her neck, his thumb gently pressing against her ear.

It was too much, too tender. The ice broke, overwhelming her, and she choked a sob against his mouth before tearing herself away and turning from him, her chest heaving with the beginnings of an emotional breakdown.

"Kate." His voice, rough.

She whirled back and braced an arm against his advancing chest before pushing past him towards her bedroom. He could let himself out.

She didn't expect his hand to wrap around her elbow in a steel grip, and her momentum brought her spinning back to face him.

"You can't just kiss me. I need words, Kate." he said, his voice low and thick.

She watched his demeanor change as he noticed the tears beginning to trail her cheeks.

"You're crying," he whispered.

Her elbow was suddenly free, his eyes darting back and forth between hers, fear and uncertainty and questioning all swirling together in their depths. "Talk to me," he breathed, desperation lacing his tone. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," she stuttered. "It's not you." Her arms hung limply at her sides, the tears welling up and spilling over.

His brows drew closer together. "Then what?"

She shook her head, her face involuntarily scrunching as a fresh wave came over her. "I don't know, Rick! If I knew, I could fix it!" She swiped fiercely at her eyes. "You think I asked for this? Being broken? It just happens, and I can't control it - just like all the other shit in my life!" The tears were flowing faster now; her last few words choked and broken.

A hand wrapped around the back of her head; the pressure drew her forward into a firm warmth, her tears weaving into the soft material pressed to her face. Castle's other hand slid across the width of her shoulder blades until the full length of his arm braced her against him, surrounding her with his strength and security as his cheek dropped to the crown of her head.

"You don't have to do this alone." he whispered.

She twisted both fists into his shirt, burrowing herself deeper into his chest, feeling her last shred of resolve crumble in his embrace. Heaving several sobs, she drew the fabric against her face, allowing him to support her weight as she melted against him.

"I'm so-orry," she whimpered between breaths, "I'm sorry..."

"No, shhh..." his fingers were tangling themselves into her hair, crushing her to him."Get it out."

A few more sobbing breaths later, she began to bring herself under control. She turned her face sideways, laying her temple against his sternum as she steadied her breathing and loosed the crumpled material from her fists, freeing her hands to slide down around his ribs and clasp lightly behind his lower back.

"You're going to have to wash your shirt." she said, her voice frayed but steady. "It's got snot in it."

He rumbled in his chest and she closed her eyes with the feel of it.

"I really don't mind." he hummed, dropping his lips to her hair. "I've got what I need right here."

Lightning shot downwards at his bold words, spiraling deep within her. She made a conscious effort to stay relaxed, unsure of how to respond.

"Of course," he continued, "if it's bothering you, I can take it off. I think yours got a little wet too, hmm?"

She smiled, rolling her eyes out of reflex as she turned to touch her nose to his chest and mumbled "Very funny, playboy" while lightly thumping her clasped hands against his back.

He rumbled again, and she thought this definitely needed to be a repeat experience: making him laugh while holding her. Not the crying.

She didn't pull away, and he didn't release her, but slowly stroked her hair and smoothed little circles across her shoulder blades, keeping his jaw pressed over her head.

"I'm seeing a therapist." She said softly. "So this can work."

Both his arms descended around her and he squeezed her tightly before releasing her as his hands moved to her shoulders, pressing her gently away. She reluctantly loosened her hold and allowed a small amount of space between them, inwardly wincing as his warmth left her.

"You want this to work-" He stared into her eyes. "-that much."

She gave a nod, suddenly and unexpectedly feeling tears prick again behind her eyes. She started to drop her head, but two of his fingers found the verge of her chin and pressed upwards, forcing her to meet his eyes again.

The adoration and tenderness she found in them electrified the hairs on the nape of her neck, and when she saw his eyes flick to her lips she flushed with heat and anticipation. His hands moved up to cup around both sides of her head, his thumbs resting in front of her ears where her jaw joined her skull. She felt her breath shorten to almost nothing as he paused, seeming to take in all of her with his eyes.

He leaned forward, tilted her head down, and pressed his lips to her forehead, an expression of gratitude and appreciation. Her shoulders melted, and she clenched her hands against his waist to steady her balance. His thumbs pressed again, this time angling her up towards him, and his lips descended over hers.

After all his innuendos, all his bragging, all his base remarks...she would never have pegged him as a tender, considerate lover.

She was wrong.

The way his lips moved over hers was as a leaf twirling on the water, as a silk cocoon swaying in the breeze. She couldn't suppress the small sound that escaped with her sigh, and he dropped his arms around her and pulled her to him, his tongue caressing her top lip with a question; her mouth parting farther with an answer.

His taste was as mulled wine, spiced and warm; his tongue as melted chocolate, thick and dark.

He was forced to step back as she dropped her weight into him, her hands sliding up his back to press between his shoulder blades. She could have taken control; but she didn't: she could have accelerated the passion; but she floated, letting his whims direct her.

An eternity later, yet too soon, he broke away and heaved a breath as he stared into her face.

"Kate..." he breathed, "you are...astounding." He trailed off, his right thumb moving to swipe at her cheekbone, a tiny smile on his face. "Stop crying."

"I'm not," she denied, dropping her cheek against his still-damp shirt and rubbing the evidence away. "It's your fault."

"Why, whatever do you mean?" he aired as she rested her forehead on his shoulder.

"I'm supposed to punch you right now but I can't find the energy."

"Oh really? Why so?" She could hear his smile in the words. His self-satisfied, smug smile. Because he knew he had her.

She turned her face into the crook of his neck. "Just shut up."

He laughed again, held her a while longer with a light sway in his stance. She dropped her lashes, waiting for her heart to slow and her strength to return. She had emptied herself, and he had filled her up; she had broken, and he held the pieces.

She felt him shift, and his warm breath danced across her ear, the words soft and whimsical. "Friday night."

"Mmm?" She was getting sleepy.

"Go out with me."

She blinked, thought about it; her brain was slowing down. "Where?"

"I'll pick. But it'll be casual, low key, simple. No heavy lifting. Just fun."

"Mhmm."

"What was that?"

"Yep."

"Perfect." He craned his neck and dropped a quick kiss on her temple.

She closed her eyes.

"Hey, what are you trying to do, knock me over?"

"Huh?" she opened her eyes and realized she had placed practically all her weight into him. "Sorry. Tired." She felt another wave hit her and fluttered her lids.

"You're falling asleep."

"Yep."

"You okay down there?"

"Perfect." she mumbled.

"Kate." he pushed against her and ducked his head to look at her face.

She grumbled at being forced to support her own weight, but the struggle to hold her balance forced some alertness into her mind. "I wanted a shower, you fool." She thumped her palm into his shoulder.

He waggled his eyebrows. "It's only eight o'clock. We've got time."

"Har har. Not happening. I'd drown. It's bedtime." She rolled away from him and stepped towards her bedroom, leaving him standing in the middle of the entry.

"Seriously? Eight o'clock? What are you, ninety years old?" he called after her.

She heard him, but her bedroom was as a magnet. She walked through the door and dropped face-down onto the bed. She should probably change into pajamas, brush her teeth, wash off her makeup; she would, in a moment...

Castle's laughter startled her, it was so close, and she felt his hand tugging on her shoulder, rolling her slightly.

"Castle..." she grumbled, drawing her arm up the duvet and burrowing her face into it, shrugging off his hand.

"I've never had a woman fall asleep so fast after a first kiss. We may have to work on this if we want to get any farther."

She flicked up two fingers above her head, her face still covered by the crook of her elbow. "Second kiss."

"Oh good, you count that one too."

"Never forgot it."

"That was a pretty badass first kiss."

"Mhhmm."

"And a pretty badass second kiss."

She smiled seductively, moving her arm slightly so she could see him with one eye. "You like kissing me, huh?"

"A prodigious understatement."

She snorted and buried her face again to hide her expanding smile. "Writers."

"You are adorable when you're drugged." It was close, spoken into her ear.

She flicked her elbow up and caught him on the chin, a warmth spiraling through her at his casual endearment.

The laughter came from somewhere above her; he must have stood up. "I saw the sleep meds in the kitchen. Where are your pajamas?"

"Uhmm...top drawer, right side." She flailed her hand in the direction of the dresser, her eyes struggling to focus.

The sound of a drawer opening was shortly followed by smothering darkness as something landed across her face.

"Should I start with your buttons or your zipper?"

That did it. She reached up and snagged the clothes off her face, rolling onto her back and throwing out an arm to deter his advances. But he was standing several feet away, chuckling.

"Get out of here, Castle."

"Not until I see you sit up."

She grumbled and swung her legs over the edge, pushing herself upwards and looking at him sullenly.

"Good job!"

"I'm still wearing my gun." She fumbled her fingers over the clasp and opened the holster.

"Good point. Although you probably couldn't hit anything right now."

"I'm drowsy, Castle, not inept!"

"So she says..." he mocked. "Look, I'm going to put your dinner away, and by that I mean throw it away, and I'll be back in two minutes." He paused in the doorway. "Hopefully, you'll only be half-dressed."

She contemplated throwing her pajamas at him, but realized she would then have to retrieve them. The door shut, and she struggled out of her jeans and managed the shirt buttons without too much difficulty, casting the clothing onto the floor and dropping her gun onto the nightstand. Snagging the yoga pants and tank top he had retrieved for her, she slipped into them, the activity restoring enough energy to stumble to the bathroom and run a quick brush over her teeth, a washcloth over her cheeks. The makeup could suffer.

He was in her bedroom when she returned, a glass of water in hand. She grabbed it, drank a few sips, handed it back. She descended to her pillow, landing on her side facing away from him, tucking her legs beneath the sheets.

"Did you want to sleep with this?"

"Hmm?" she struggled to catch what he meant, then felt the back of his fingers against her skin, the chain of her mother's ring slipping between them. She rolled towards him. "Oh. No."

"May I?"

"Sure. Little box on the dresser."

His hands ghosted across her face as they lifted the necklace past her chin and over her forehead. Her lashes lowered as they passed over, only to open in surprise at the unexpected press of his lips to hers. But he shifted before she could respond, and her lids dropped again as he kissed the soft skin near her eye where tears had coursed a short while before.

His lips whispered against her. "Any more than that and I'm going to end up in there with you."

She shuddered slightly at the seriousness and finality in his voice, suddenly feeling nervous and insecure. He wasn't playing around; he was intent on one thing. And it wasn't getting in bed with her. She knew he could have played his cards differently: he could have pushed and charmed a little more - she would have agreed to anything after that kiss. But he hadn't. He'd brought her water and tucked her in with a chaste kiss. He was walking her into this with a clarity and direction that had her scrambling. It scared her. She wasn't in control of this one.

"I'll see you at nine tomorrow." she said. It felt weird to bring work into the conversation; their roles had been suddenly reversed.

"That's late. For you."

"I'm going to my therapist tomorrow."

"Ah, good. I'll see you at nine." He leaned in again. "Christmas blend or skinny vanilla latte?"

She smiled. "Surprise me."

His finger slid along her forehead and tucked a strand behind her ear. "Good night, Kate."

"Night, Castle." She was already drifting, fading out, dropping into the realm of subconscious wanderings that borders unawareness.

An odd, latent thought struck her. No other man had ever lifted her mother's ring from her possession.

That was probably significant, somehow. She'd figure it out later.


A/N: So, originally this scene was supposed to be a big fight and I was saving the fluff for later (for the sake of plot)...but jeez, I couldn't keep them apart, you know? I hope I haven't killed my momentum with having them kiss and make up a chapter or so too soon...but they still have alot to work through: the issue of her memory hasn't been dealt with (Castle knows she remembers - but not how much), so that is still smoldering, and there is the Friday night date, right? Plus the promised twisted ankle...

So I think I can still keep you all interested. Plus, this is FanFiction. Plot can be sacrificed on the altar of fluff, since that is what we are all here for anyway. I'll leave it to Marlowe to give us great stories with perfect twists. Lord knows he can hold out on the fluff!

Hope you liked it. I had a lot of fun writing it...until it started giving me trouble, and I started editing and doubting and wondering if I was getting them all out of character...then I thought 'my poor readers, it's Wednesday...post the damn thing.'

Also, not much of the next chapter is written, and I am traveling this weekend. Which means...you'll have to wait till sometime next week. Hopefully earlier than later. XcrossesfingersX