Title: Partners

Disclaimer: I hope be the proud owner of an internship by summer. Priorities, you know?

Summary: Walls fall down; that's the nature of the beast. And no matter how Kate looks at it, she's staring at piles of rubble. And from rubble, where do they go next? Slight spoilers for 4x11 and beyond.


Chapter 8:

Rubble. Smoke. Crumbling cement and plaster. Guns. Screaming. Hoarse, worried, harried, devastated screaming. She was screaming.

"Castle!" she roughed out, voice ringing around the hazy remains of the bank, stumbling over debris as the rest of the force fanned out behind her. "Castle!"

There was no answering call, and her stomach plummeted, turning to lead, lungs constricting. "Castle!" she begged, moving faster, swiveling the small beam of light the tiny flashlight provided through the fog of smoke.

And then she saw them, a pile of bodies, surrounded by more bodies and parts of bodies. Blood. Guts. A tie. A hand. His hand. His face, half smashed in. His arm lying a few feet aw…

"Kate."

"Castle," she cried, falling to the ground beside his mangled body.

"Kate, hey."

She blinked and reached for him, but she didn't find his face. It felt like his arm—the arm lying three feet away from them. "Castle," she whispered, horrified as she recognized the garish remains of a coat she'd seen on Martha once. God, that had to be…it had been Martha. "Castle."

"Kate!"

She jerked awake, panting, disoriented. It was dim, wherever it was. She startled as a warm hand caressed her cheek. And suddenly his face swam into view around the blur of unshed tears, his breath so fantastically present against her lips as he leaned in close. She realized she was tangled up in…his bed? Why was she in his bed? Had they—but he had been dead—and it was soft—and he was there—and he…

"Hey," he said quietly, his deep voice breaking the cycle of confusion.

"Hi," she managed, throat tight and scratchy. "Um," she paused and licked her lips. "I…dream?"

He nodded his forehead against hers. "Bad one, looked like."

She took as deep a breath as possible, filled with his scent and a hint of aftershave. "Time s'it?"

She caught the corner of his smile as he gently pressed his lips to her cheek. "3am, about."

Kate took it in, the stillness, his wide yet tired eyes, the lack of light. "Did I wake you?" she asked, loosening the death grip she realized she had on his arm, which she'd been clutching to her chest, apparently.

His sheets were soft against her skin, and she felt herself cooling off, even with him there above her, face so close, fingers gently brushing her side where his arm was flung across her stomach—or tugged across, probably.

"Kicked me," he said honestly, but she saw no reproach there.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I…usually have the bed to myself when I, uh…"

"Thrash," he provided easily. "It's okay, Kate. I just wanted to wake you up."

She sucked in a breath. It had been a long time since someone had woken her from one of these terrors. She'd been doing well since the sniper case—only a few dreams she could remember. But usually, she woke herself, screaming, gasping, wide eyed and wild, until the rhythm of the city calmed her pulse and she rationalized her way out of the horror—be it the bank, or the freezer, or the cemetery, or the 3XK, or something older, something in a lone alley with the grim face of Dick Coonan leering in the distance.

But this, with his thumb soft against her forehead, eyes searching hers, fingers tracing her side—this was immeasurably better, calming, soothing, lovely.

"Does this happen often?" he asked gently, pulling back so they could see each other properly.

She stared at his nose, whole and straight on his face, not bloody and bashed in like the man in her dream. "No," she said after a beat, remembering the question and pushing the dream away. It was only a dream—a what-if gone horribly wrong in her subconscious. "Rarely now."

He nodded thoughtfully. "New locations bring it on?"

She chewed on the inside of her lip. "I guess," she decided. She hadn't really had the opportunity to test the theory, this being the only other bed she'd slept in since returning from her father's cabin. "Speaking of," she said, unable to keep the small smile from crossing her lips. "Why am I here?"

He chuckled quietly and let his fingers trail down to the bottom hem of her tank top. "You fell asleep on the couch."

"I didn't," she sighed, staring up at the ceiling. "Seriously?

He nodded gravely, though she caught the twinkle in his eye, reflected by the soft light from the street outside. "We hunkered down to watch something funny, settled on The Princess Bride, and you were out within ten minutes."

Kate groaned and brought her right hand up to cover her face. While it was customary for her to face plant after a long week, passing out on her own couch to the dulcet tones of whatever came on when she turned on the TV, it was completely different to do so at Castle's, much less right after having declared her love for him.

"Sorry," she mumbled from beneath her hand. Romantic and sexy—she must have been such a sight, snoring on his shoulder. And then she'd woken him up by kicking him. They were off to a fantastic start.

He pried her hand from her face and replaced the digits with his lips, skating across her cheek and down to find hers in a kiss. It was soft and chaste, early morning mixed with exhaustion. Maybe he hadn't fallen asleep on the couch, but she knew it had been a long week for him too. And that conversation in his office, the long hug afterward—it was heavy, and wonderful, and terrifying. Enough to put her to sleep, apparently.

"I didn't mind," he told her as he pulled back.

"And the next logical step was to carry me, I assume, back to your bed?"

He grinned. "Of course."

She shook her head lightly, reaching up to smooth some of his bed head. His eyes softened even further and he smiled dopily at her, rubbing his cheek on her hand as it fell to his shoulder.

"Well, thanks for tucking me in," she said, pleased with the way his eyes lit up at her words.

"I'd be happy to make it a habit," he said immediately.

She gave him a half-hearted sigh for show and squeezed his shoulder as she yawned. "Sorry for kicking you."

He shook his head. "I'm glad you did. Whatever you were dreaming—I was glad I could wake you."

"It goes away," she said quietly, uneager to having him worrying over her sleep habits, see him crinkling his brow every time she had an extra coffee. They were just dreams—horrible, terrible dreams—and they passed.

"You just kept saying my name," he continued, troubled. "Over and over, and you got louder, and…"

She placed a hand over his lips. Letting him in, breaking the wall, telling the truth meant that he got her like this—this incomplete person with scars and terrors and the occasional bout of PTSD. "I'm okay," she said firmly. "Been okay for a while, and I'll keep getting better."

He kissed her fingers. "Can I help?"

Her natural instinct was to say 'No,' immediately. But she'd made a promise to herself to let him in; hell, she'd basically made him that same promise. And his bright blue eyes watched her with such concern, such affection, such undeniable love. "Waking me up is nice," she conceded truthfully.

Not living through the rest of that dream was a relief, and it was so much better to wake up to him shirtless (and how had she missed that detail?) and wrapped around her, than to wake up alone, sweating, and itching to call him, just to make sure, just to check, just to hear his mumbled, 'wha?' on the other end of the phone.

"Can do," he smiled as he slouched down beside her, arm still cradling her side, pulling her into him as he slipped his other arm beneath his pillow. "Can you sleep?

She nodded and turned onto her side, curling one arm up to her chest as her other came to rest on top of his while his hand traced patterns on her back. He pulled her closer until they shared his pillow, noses touching. The intimacy wasn't cloying, wasn't stifling, just comfortable, familiar—an invasion of space that seemed like such a logical leap from the way they stood and worked together day in and day out.

"Alarm?" he whispered.

"Did you set one?"

"For seven," he confirmed, wincing with a pout.

"Turn it off. We're on call," she said softly, smiling at the answering grin that split his face. Reluctantly, he rolled over and flicked the switch on the alarm she could see on his bedside table over his shoulder, illuminated with a faint green glow from the digital face that blinked, 3:05am at them.

She realized rather belatedly that she had no idea what the room looked like. And yet here she was, lying in his bed, with his arm sliding around her middle and his lips ghosting over her nose.

"Does Alexis know I'm here?" she asked, feeling the little puff of air he let out at his daughter's name.

"She smiled and wished us a good evening. Got back about two hours after you passed out. You're old."

"Don't go there," she cautioned, yawning. "You'll never win."

He laughed and she felt vibrations through his arm as he tugged her close enough to find her mouth. She could easily get used to this, to going to sleep with him, and waking up, and living and…there was time for all of that tomorrow.

"Night, Rick," she mumbled as they pulled apart.

"Good morning, Kate," he said, his voice light. "Sweet dreams."

She hummed and let herself sink into the pillows and the feel of his arm heavy over her side. She could hear every soft inhale as they lay there, faces inches apart. It was so absurdly normal, so mundane to lay there with him. And it felt like they'd been doing it for forever—no awkward movements, no disjointed conversations, just sleep.

As she nodded off, she found herself imagining what the room looked like, since she could only make out shapes in the darkness. It was strange however, because an inordinate amount of her own belongings inexplicably found their way into the pictures in her head.

(…)

It turned out that they didn't have enough time for her to inspect the room. The call came in at eight, waking them from a deep sleep, her body sprawled over his. She ended up knocking his chin with the top of her head, and they grumped themselves through a hurried morning ritual. They exchanged short words and moved around each other with ease, both too tired to really appreciate the paradigm shift of physically getting ready together; they were out of his apartment and on their way back to hers before either really had the opportunity.

In the romance department, they weren't doing so hot.

"Kate, where are your coffee filters?" he called. She could hear him clanking around the kitchen as she slipped into a turtle neck, pulling her damp hair from the collar.

"Second cabinet up," she replied, hurrying back into the bathroom to blow dry her hair.

While domestic in a strangely pleasant way, this morning, with him clunking around her kitchen and her rushing to put on eyeliner, wasn't quite what she'd hoped it would be. A slow good morning, a laze in bed, a breakfast in his kitchen—anything but this scattered scramble to get to the scene in a decent amount of time would have been better. She'd imagined it better than this, but somewhere in her head it brought the point home; they'd been in a relationship for a long time already, and her revelation was just another step toward whatever they would become.

Earth shattering, it was not.

She made her way back to the kitchen, pausing to slip on her second boot as she leaned her hip against the couch. He watched her, standing near the door, two coffees in hand, in their usual, reusable mugs. She hadn't even noticed him bringing them with him. Some detective she was.

"Ready?" he asked as she approached him, swinging her hips more than she probably should. His answering grin was encouragement enough. "I'd say you're more than ready," he amended.

"To go find a body," she added as his grin turned lustful.

"I can find a body right…"

She covered his mouth with her hand, using the other to smooth down the lapel of his pea coat. "Quit while you're ahead."

He laughed beneath her hand and she leaned up to press a quick kiss to his lips before stepping out of reach and ushering him out of the apartment. He bumped her arm with her coffee and she took the cup from him, letting the warm plastic heat her colder hands as they got into the elevator, riding quietly down to the first floor.

"What did Espo say about the body?"

She turned to look at him as he held the door to the lobby open for her, letting in a rush of frigid, wet air. It was about 40 degrees, reasonably warm for January, but the wind and the overcast sky made it seemed much colder.

"Nothing, just to meet him at the Provenzano Lanza Funeral Home," she said as they headed down the block to her cruiser, which they'd dropped off before heading on their date the night before.

"There's a murder at a funeral home?" he asked, barely, badly suppressed glee infusing his voice.

And sure enough, his eyes were wide with excitement. "I guess so."

"Awesome."

Kate shook her head and unlocked the car, handing him her coffee as he got in. She watched as he placed it in the cup holder while she moved around the hood to get into the driver's seat. It was a system they'd developed after she'd accidentally spilled coffee all over his lap one morning, stumbling as she sat down and her cuffs had poked her in the hip. He always watched the cups warily now, and she couldn't help but laugh as she threw the car into drive and peeled out into the rush hour traffic. The detour to her apartment had put them smack dab in the 9am lock. Esposito wouldn't be pleased.

"Do you think it was the mortician? Ooh, what about a reanimated body. Does that even count as murder?" he mused, sipping his coffee and watching the traffic around them.

"I suppose if it's reanimated, it was never really dead to begin with, so yes, that counts," she considered, playing along, because it was infectious. He made everything fun; she couldn't deny that.

His fingers stroked her wrist as she picked up her coffee. "But what if it's a zombie?"

"Then we have bigger problems than a murder investigation," she replied, looking over at him as they came to yet another red light.

He laughed, delighted. "What's your kill strategy?"

"For the zombie apocalypse?"

"Of course. You must have one," he said, voice forcibly serious.

She glanced over at him as she took a sip and went through another intersection. "I have a gun."

"That's dull," he said with a sigh.

"Fine. What's your interesting, zombie-killing strategy?" she asked as they got onto the right block.

He pondered for a moment as she zipped into a spot along the sidewalk. Across the street they could see a few uniforms posted beneath the awning that jutted out from the gray building. It looked like the front for a clothing store, with dark gray bands along the windows and between stretches of lighter gray stone, "Provenzano" spelled out in large chrome letters below the windows on the second story.

"Gun shot to the forehead, and then a flame thrower. You have to ensure that they can't get back up," Castle explained as they got out.

She was already sinking into cop mode, watching the milling people outside the home, looking for anomalies. Word must have gotten out to the morning papers, because there were a few cameras in the crowd, flashing as they took photos, their photographers yelling out to the uniforms and various other department personnel flitting in and out of the building.

"My gun would give you the time to find something flammable," she said as they crossed the street.

"That assumes that we're together," he fired back, lifting the tape barrier that extended around the building for her.

"Oh please, Castle. You know the last thing you should ever do in a horror story is split up," she said as they nodded to the uniforms. Castle held the door for her and Kate walked in ahead of him; this was her job after all. She needed to be the first one through the door.

"Up and to your left," Velasquez told them, gesturing to the staircase directly in front of them.

There were two rooms off to either side of the grand, red-carpeted staircase, and CSU was already combing through them.

"Finally. Took you two long enough," Esposito announced as he appeared at the top of the stairs. "Did you walk in together?"

"Yes," Kate replied with a small measure of bite to her voice, hoping to get him to drop the subject. She didn't feel like explaining their tardiness.

"Might want to keep your hand off Beckett's back when walking into a crime scene, dude," he offered with a little grin, before pointing to the left and disappearing.

Kate swung around. "You were touching my back?"

"You didn't seem to mind, and only for a second," he said quickly, contrite. She felt a soft pressure lift off of the small of her back, perplexed by the idea that she hadn't noticed it at all.

"Outside?"

"Of course not," he laughed, giving her a look before stepping around her and starting up the stairs. "Come on, Beckett. There's a body."