A/N: My deepest gratitude to all you readers/reviewers. I can't thank you enough.


It's the first time she's ever used her siren for a personal reason.

But of all reasons, she figures it's a pretty damn good reason.

So she arrives at 47th with half the travel time cut, surfing the traffic without much trouble, or any at all really. She's determined to not waste any time.

They found someone. They found him.

She's frantic reaching the site, plowing through the crowds – larger now that the media has made known Mr. Eligible Bachelor, Master of Macabre is under the wreckage – clamoring to find Folley and Sati. She's fluid, the drum of her heart the beat her steps follow, Castle the only lyric fitting the rhythm her mind sings. A desire brews in her chest that the moment she sets her sights on him, the first reaction will be to fling herself around his neck, solely to convince her senses that it is in fact him. Her eyes scan as she surveys the area, but when she spots the detectives, able to overlook everything from before, she notes his clear absence and waits for direction to him.

"Where is he? How–how is he?" she says as they begin to walk around the perimeter.

"Alive," Sati answers. A shudder claws over her shoulders to creep down her back. It's a bittersweet release of chained nerves, an unexpected breeze shocking them back to life. He's, at least, alive, she actually hears in his voice. Forget it. He's alive.

A teeny voice dares to question how much, though.

They only direct her so far until they reach a part of the building still erect, where a man from the rescue team, some medical specialist named James Bradford, leads her to the opening further in, explaining the status of Castle's situation.

His leg is pinned. That sticks out above any other medical jargon Bradford tells her, echoing in her ears over and over. Some fluids have helped, and he should be out soon, but there's work to be done. Precautions to take.

Surgery, he says.

She stalls, but everything slumps forward inside, caving in.

He's alive.

"Can I see him?"

"It's not advised that you do so–"

"I'm sorry, I didn't ask what you'd advise. Can I see him?"

"It's risky," he drawls, gesturing her to calm with his hands.

"For me or him?"

"You. You could get hurt. We're not sure how stable it is since the second–"

"Does it look like I came down to chat, Bradford?" Her stance remains firm, immovable as he decides what to do. "My partner is down there. With or without you, I'm goin' in." Bradford rebukes with a huff before relenting to show her the entry site, how to slip down and maneuver in the tunnel they've sifted through.

After a couple minutes, she hears coughs, the huff of them too familiar and unsettling to her stomach, but their echoes function as a guide. Utilizing the flashlight on her phone, she and Bradford make it to the crawl space lit up with emergency lights that reveal a man sprawled out.

The warm glow of him she's so accustomed to dies beneath the gray debris and dust matted to his skin, some patches of sweat glimmering through under the dim golden light. She can barely hear her breath over the scream of relief pulsating in her veins. The smell has little effect for her, dry, if anything, the conditions unable to distract her focus. It's her eyes that never leave him, as he waits for Bradford to near before he shifts his head to face her. He's so gradual and cautious in his turn, revealing the same piercing blue she faced the night before.

It's the ones that had watched her through the night in her reflection, then her dreams, conquering her mind with that look from him she's grown so fond of but could never accept belonged to her. She doesn't believe it, but oh...fuck. She crumbles inside, stiff in her uncertainty of what move to do next, stunned by a sigh her soul takes involuntarily. Her eyes trail all over him assuring every aching bone that he's here. Alive.

He's not confident that it's her, squinting first to validate the silhouette before him followed by a release, a flux in his expression when he's finally sure. To herself, she rejects his disbelief; he had known immediately when she emerged before him. It's never taken him much to identify her through the darkness, through a crowd, in the rays of the glaring sun. He'd call for her among whatever mess lay before them, abiding her every step long before she could find him...because he would find her first. It's just surprise that blinds him now. He has every reason to be surprised...because she's here. She shouldn't be, if she's upset. She has the right.

Even so, she's come back, to be there next to him, by his side.

"Beckett?" he says, voice hoarse. He's checking twice, waiting on her voice for confirmation. It takes her a minute to will herself forward. Tucking away her phone, she drags herself on her stomach to properly navigate in the cramped space, smearing her forearms along the ground to move toward him.

Closer now, his cuts, the wedge of his leg, the weariness in his face – she absorbs it all, reflexive when her hands seek his calf, grazing his bandages all over, from his arms to his face. Her fingers lift in fear after processing what she's done, but he doesn't seem to shy away. Thereafter, she makes a point to stand by her actions.

"God…Castle," she mutters, evaluating the damage. The crease in her brows conveys enough to him, but there's a glint of something in her eye. Outwardly, she's worried.

Oh, but there's a fire of ardor enkindled beneath.

"That bad, huh," he jokes. It's lame, cheap, but he tries, founding some semblance of solidarity for them to stand on. For whatever reason, he does, and she smiles easier at his spirit, his effort. Hope returns on the thinnest wick to bear it, a capricious flare lit. There's something salvageable here, it seems, so she treads carefully with the knowledge of it, hoping her moves don't put out the flame.

"How's the leg?"

"Really hoping I can keep it," he says looking to Bradford. "Can I boss?"

"If we can do the fasciotomy in time, then yes you just might."

Too much pressure, something about compartment syndrome...it's a blur all together as she studies the doctor sterilizing a spot on his leg. As Bradford redirects the light, she views the swelling, the bruising. There's a promise in the bulge of the skin. It promises agony.

"You shouldn't be here," Castle punctuates with a gulp, glancing back and forth between her and Bradford. Tipping his chin towards her wrapped hand he continues. "Especially not with that. The secondary collapse is what pinned me. It might happen again. You could get infected maybe have to amputate your whole arm–"

"I'm fine, okay? Let's not do this now," she says, an airy chuckle flowing between her syllables, slipping her wounded hand under his head and propping up the back of his neck. It cushions him in support, leveling it in comfort for his already awkward position in the concrete surrounding him. Her free hand dusts him off, careful to miss the bandages, tending his face too in smearing away sweat...tears probably included in the mix. Chilled at the touch, clothes smudged with some crimson...oh, blood...her lids water to witness him in this state, this vulnerability.

It keeps her emotions at bay, for the most part, focusing on the environment he's been lost in for hours. He could've died...

He could've died.

And so it follows – it's been a year since she almost died. It kills her how the tables have decided their turn.

"There's nothing you can do," he says breaking her out of her rumination. She's unconsciously gazed one too many times over his trapped leg.

"I'm not here because there is," she rushes, offended eyes narrowed over him. Her sincerity strikes them both, but she's amazed at herself not just because she's said it aloud – but that she actually believes it.

She does. She wants to stay with him.

"Just a friendly reminder that this might hurt," Bradford says.

"Is that the pressure gauge again?" he says through a breathy whine. The doctor just nods. "Okay...go ahead."

Her expression rounds out in panic, sputtering words just as she thinks, "no anesthetic?"

"He used it up on the first two tries–" he manages, but yelps out the last word, hand forced into a fist that ascends, only to fall again and pound against the earth, distraught. His back arches, head rolls over her hand, but the pinch doesn't occur to her. She's too busy steadying his torso, holding down his wrist on his taut abdomen as he rides out the stab of the needle. The sweat she'd cleaned off him a couple minutes before coats him again, bundling the spikes of his hair and salting the new tears falling down his temples. His lids flex to close; she's imploring that it's over.

Neither acknowledge that he's cradling her hand upon his chest, his ten fingers twined with her five, even long after Bradford retracts the needle. The race of his heart alarms her, the contraction too distinct through the skin and what clothes it, but it testifies his life, his presence when the rest of him goes mute.

"We're gonna get you out soon, Rick," the doctor says, cleaning up his mess before leaving. Castle doesn't bother with his exit, instead taking a stretch to regain repose. She helps him, talking low, fortifying him with the squeeze of her hand as she coaxes him to speak. Her thumb tucked under his head strokes back and forth to assure him she's there...there with him still, waiting for him to do the same.

"Talk Castle," she fans over his shoulder to reach his ears. "Say something. Just–talk. Please." Their hands rise up and down as his lungs expand, breaths full even in spite of the polluted air. He'd kicked up some dust in his tense writhing, but she couldn't shy away. Even now.

"That's one thing you should only have to do once," he finally says, hazy in his return. Her head drops to face the ground, hung in release of the tension. "Not fun."

"Doesn't look-it," she mumbles, lifting her gaze back to him. "It's the first time you've ever shut your mouth, for anything."

Opening his eyes to her, he cocks half a grin. It's all he can manage, she figures. "Listen...I don't need you to get wounded down here and have me need to lick your cuts too," he says. He's deflecting, refusing to speak on the palpable ambivalence in their actions, but the deflection speaks too bizarre for her to disregard.

"Lick my cuts–you licked your cuts?" She hates it. She's half-chuckling already before he can answer her.

"Oh c'mon. You're telling me you don't know about that? Saliva helps heal wounds faster," he enthuses. She's impressed, a bit, but her teeth keep it in.

"So, you licked your whole body?"

"Just the cuts. It was quite difficult too, when you need to produce the amount I needed. It was a challenge, I'll say."

Ooof. What a bass thumping in her chest. This feels good, it feels…normal. It feels like...

Them.

"Did you learn that for Derrick Storm, or did you find it in your apocalypse survival guide handbook?"

"Ah, you mock, but I pretty much saved myself from infection." Both letting out a snicker or two, the clearing of his throat cleans the air for more serious tones. "Really though, you should be going. I'll be fine."

There's a pause, suspending for some time as he stares without a blink. He's either giving her an out...or avoiding the obvious question.

"How did you end up here?" Face sinking, anger or hatred don't return to her heart. Rather, Alexis, disappointment, and grief resurface in her mind as he finds the words to answer.

"The man I told you about – he told me to meet. Here."

She turns away slightly, the confirmation a hand pressing on her jaw to do so. "It's the same man who tried to kill me."

"What? How do you know?"

"The church meeting spot. Surveillance gave us a face, and we captured the same one off the traffic cam here on 47th. We're more than just confident it's him."

"But…he wanted to protect you. He brought me here to warn us, that these men after you–"

"Castle I saw, okay? I saw the photos. I saw he's – he's alive in my mind more than anything else. You really wanna fight about someone who's only a shadow to you?"

"You don't trust me," he whispers, lolling his head to face up and avoid her glare. She doesn't move but she's burning again, radiating the illness towards this whole mess from deep within her veins.

Trust is a touchy subject.

"You've given me one hell of an excuse not to," her breath grates what little space they've left between their faces. But she's inching away.

"Damn it–I was trying to keep you safe, that's all."

Oh. There's a pause lodged in her throat before she chokes out her anger through a stifled cry. She retracts her hands in frustration, but her right stuck under his head moves slowly enough to keep him from getting hurt.

"Safe? You kept me in darkness, just like this." She gestures around them before returning her watering wreaths into the sky…the sky trapped in his irises. "For a year, a whole year I braved nights like it were some kind of battle. Y'know how many times I pulled my gun on an empty doorway because of a pop in the crappy piping? Because of some bang, or crash outside at 3 am? I've been waiting for the second bullet, for a year. Your deal allowed him more time to get his shit together to gun me down again, so please tell me how I should feel protected."

"The guy who shot you? I don't know about you, but he doesn't seem the type that needs to get his shit together to kill," he says. His words are brave, but the lids flutter too often with swallows and a tightened jaw to match. She's wounded him somehow, maybe with the imagery of her suffering. In spite of it, he continues on. "Why would he strike a deal? For what reason? Why wait to kill, especially knowing I could tell you at any time? He couldn't know that I'd be willing to keep it from you, even if it were for your own good. This guy, he could've picked anyone. He picked me because we're partners, because he knows I'd...do whatever it takes to keep you alive. Which is what we did."

"What you did was sit on my breakthrough while you knew what was goin' on with me."

"I did what I thought was necessary to help–"

"And now look where we are," she deadpans. "He tried to kill you."

"No, he couldn't have done this," he insists. "His hands were empty at the time of the explosion. He was in my sights before I knocked out, looking just as frightened as me...the poor old bastard."

Old…old?

"He's old?" she says, voice leveled out. "How? How was he?"

"Wrinkly? Think of, uh–half dried out grape that's not quite raisin, with some dead hair colored like a grayish Casper – I don't know. That's my definition of old-looking."

So…then…

"There's another guy," she gathers. Checking her phone for signal, she calls up the boys. When neither pick up she relays the message via text, informing them of the third man, and requesting a more thorough search of the traffic footage. Every inch of her stiffens, a pang twanging to counter her pounding heart, dissonance in the pulse of her blood that welcomes an ache throughout.

She doesn't know what to think anymore.

"I have to go," she says scooting towards the tunnel, but he reaches out for her, the pads of his fingers just feathering the top of her hand once she's moved away. He's restrained, but pleading for her not to go. Part of her resists. Another part motivates her to leave.

"Don't, he will finish the job. You'll be easy if you pelt straight at them," he warns.

"I've been ready for this, are you kiddin' me? Thirteen years, Castle. Not a second more," she grits. But his fists are clenching, jaw tensed with lids pulled tight as he grumbles her name.

"Kate–! if you–" he breaks to breathe, lashes kissing his cheeks both damp in fear, shaky sighs escaping from distress over his set conviction of what will happen. "If you care about me at all, just don't do this."

"If I care about you?" She pulls back, furthering away in a pained disgust. The space she puts between them brings his attention back to watch and listen. "If I care–you betrayed my trust, our trust, you don't get to cast those terms on me for judgment."

"This is coming from the one who champions verity, and yet lied for a year–"

"Stop. I'm not doin' this again. I thought you were done with me–"

"Yeah, and I sure as hell believed it too," he bites through a scoff. The tone is indignant. Crisp. The words just don't match. "But the reason I'm not done is the reason you're here right now."

There's a break, and the seam of her mouth tears open to speak, but she spurs him to continue by keeping silent. "Why are you under some impression that I expected anything in return? How did that become the deal breaker in what I said, for you to feel the need to lie to me?"

"I don't know–"

"Yes, you do. You may not say it, you may lie to everyone else, but don't you lie to me, Katherine Beckett. I knew a day would come when you'd decide what you want. It's passed. I think now, now you do know, but you're afraid. For the first time, you're afraid of what's true for you...because it's something you want that can be taken away."

Her eyes, a burning brown in this lowlight, avoid his stone slate blues with all her might, shifting everywhere else so as not to risk the contact.

She knows what he's talking about. She maybe even agrees.

So, she doesn't speak.

"I didn't have a lot of truth going for me before we met. I've never known greater truths than in what we've done for our cases together, in working beside you, learning what I have, and knowing who you are. The pinnacle of it all comes down to the simple fact that I love you."

She lacks the strength to hold her tears back anymore. So they flow. They bleed out with no regard of where they'll fall, plunging down to be lost in the shadows.

Clumping the ashes.

"And yeah, maybe you weren't ready to hear those words then," he continues. "Maybe, that was the last thing you needed to hear. But the last thing you needed at nineteen was for your mother to die, to be stolen away by the mindless, cruel twist of a knife. The last thing you needed was for your father to be consumed whole by his drinking, for you to become the caretaker of the family while piecing your life back together. You didn't need to become a cop, to learn to serve the truth, to guard your life with it, to make an oath to protect it. But it happened. All of it, the good and the bad, happened. Just like us. How we became us, how I fell in love with you. It's not always a choice. We aren't geared to fight any of it, to alter the outcome. For someone who's been through all that you have, I'm amazed you can't see that."

Oh, but she does. She sees it.

That is what's killing her.

A pause lingers far too long, and she's thankful to reside far enough within the shadows that he can't count her droplets of anguish, but the tremble in her voice gives away her condition. "I'm just trying to get through...all of this, Castle. I needed time. It's not personal."

"And that's exactly the problem, Kate. You...you're the most remarkable, maddening, challenging...frustrating person I've ever met. And you dedicate yourself to loneliness because you've got no clue what you deserve. It's not your fault. It's your life, all you know, the relationship you rely on because it's beaten out the rest. It's helped you survive. But you forget that's not the only choice here."

Yes, she admits, but it's the easier way.

A phone call saves her ten seconds later, forcing her out of the hole to access better signal. She keeps her sight on him as she moves, but his doesn't follow her exit. Resurfacing from the rubble, she regrets it once the brisk air fills her lungs, a grating rawness in each drag for oxygen. It makes her question whether or not to go back down, to say what she wants provoked from the guilt of walking away again, but the phone call continues to distract, filling the need for an excuse to leave.

Decision made.