So, how did everybody feel about 47 Seconds?

Can't believe how well it fits with the grain of this story. Don't forget, everyone, it might all be gone tomorrow, so make sure you have no regrets.

Enjoy. And keep the feedback coming :)

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Chapter Nine

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He should have learned a long time ago that nothing gets past Martha Rogers. Plus sneaking into his own place is kind of sad for a man of his age. But something about the lingering taste of expensive wine on his tongue and the positively gleeful mood that his partner has left him in has him trying not to let the front door creak at 11:30pm while he sneaks in through the doorway as quietly as possible.

"Hot date?"

His face drops at the sound of his mother's questioning tone and he pushes the door open in one move, losing all sense of stealth.

"I was with Beckett." He lets the door close behind him, "What are you doing up so late?" His mother is sitting on the couch, ribbons of fabric and cotton all around her, as well as an inordinate amount of sequins.

Martha bypasses his question in favour of her son's love life, "Alexis tells me that you and Kate are 'working things out'." There's a familiarity in the way she says 'Kate' that makes him excited. His mother has always been vocal in her dislike for his previous lovers, but Kate she loves. And the fact that his mother loves her makes him love her even more.

She doesn't phrase it as a question, but she is Martha Rogers, so she really doesn't have to. Castle moves a pile of tulle and satin to the coffee table before flopping onto the couch, sighing, "Alexis tells you, does she?"

Martha just nods, quirking an eyebrow at her son, "It's about time, kiddo."

Castle smiles, "We haven't done anything, Mother." And he suddenly feels 17 again, explaining why Samantha Duncan's t-shirt is half way across his bedroom, while she is sitting on his bed. He shakes his head, "Not that it concerns you." And after a beat, he tries to deflect the attention again, "What exactly are you doing here?" He asks, holding up a section of beaded satin.

His mother shoots him a knowing look to sum up their conversation about Beckett, because even without a sound, Martha always gets the last word, and then she proceeds to tell him, "I've decided that my students need a sense of familiarity and comfort radiating from within my acting school. So I'm fashioning some uniforms, to bring us all together."

Castle picks up the bold pink material with orange and purple beading and re-examines it in the context of a 'uniform'. He shakes his head; only his mother.

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It's different this time.

The air surrounding them is crisp, cool. A breeze is rustling through the trees, sending leaves tumbling to the ground.

They're outside.

The sun is beating down on them, trying to break through the icy air that surrounds their private universe.

The grass is green.

They're alone.

And he is holding her impossibly close. Their mouths are familiar and solid, kisses pouring from one soul to the other, liquid between them, soft and sure.

His hands run through her hair, but it's wet this time, wet with the dew from the grass.

There are moans; from him and from her. But they're different.

The whole situation is so different.

Her hands fumble as they reach for his shirt, trying to pull it and push it and just rip it. He doesn't care. He knows this is a dream.

He knows this is a dream.

But it doesn't stop him searching for something. He hears the tear as his buttons go flying into the freshly mowed lawn, his heart pounding against her lips as she kisses his chest. The need is primal between them, but he knows that he needs to keep a look out. He doesn't know what's coming, but his gut tells him it's bad…

He rolls them over as she rises above him, reaching for the hem of her shirt. And he is distracted for a second, distracted by the sliver of smooth skin he can see at her waist, distracted by the feel of their bodies colliding so intimately again and again a soft barrier of material lingering between them as she tries to divest them of all clothing.

There is a glint in the sun and a muffled shot fired. He screams, but she is louder, more insistent, more pain filled than his cry will ever be, "NO!"

He sits up, wide eyed in his bed, shaking with terror.

His phone is in his hand before he knows what he's doing and he has dialled her number before his breath has evened out.

"Castle?" She sounds groggy with sleep, but a jolt of familiarity hits her as she remembers how he had behaved last time he had called this late and she speaks quickly, "Don't you dare hang up on me this time or I will kill you." She doesn't care that it seems irrationally angry, they've finally broken down parts of a wall that belongs to both of them and she sees no sense in going backwards.

He takes a moment to remember, but once he does he is intensely sorry. The last time he did this he had been frightened of everything that the phone call had meant, this time he relishes in what the phone call means.

"I'm coming over. I need to see you."

She's halfway through telling him that it's nearly 3am when she realises he has already hung up on her.

She frowns in confusion at her phone, seeing the screen fade to black and confirming that the call had really just happened. As she pulls her covers off her and pads her way to the kitchen, she can't help but think that this had all better be worth his death.

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She's already brewed the coffee by the time he knocks on her front door. She figures that anything that warrants him coming over so late (early?) is going to take some time to resolve, so she wants them to be somewhat awake.

She is not changing out of her pyjamas though, and that is just something he is going to have to deal with.

His knock is more insistent the second time and she rolls her eyes at his impatience, opening the door and handing him a coffee without a word. She collects hers from the kitchen and joins him again in her living room.

"Wanna sit?"

He nods, holding his coffee like a lifeline, "Yeah." And she hears the croakiness of his voice.

They don't even try to keep a distance as they take a seat. His knee is bent up, brushing her bare thigh, her legs on full show as she wears only a pair of pyjama shorts and a t-shirt; she reaches over, resting a hand on his knee, warmth radiating between them.

He looks tortured and that worries her. He's supposed to be the strong one. And she is struck once again by the absurdity of their situation. When did it all get so mixed up? When did her problems become his problems?

"You okay?" She knows he isn't.

His haunted eyes watch her for a moment, "I keep having bad dreams." He doesn't elaborate and he doesn't have to, she knows how he feels. For a long time after her mother's death she had nightmares about the faceless men who had ripped her family apart with one fatal stab. As the years have gone on, the nightmares never ceased, but only changed to include the face of the man who had killed her mother and slowly, gradually another person was introduced to the nightmares, a man she feared would be torn away from her.

She has never feared for her own life so much because of how it would hurt another person. She has never had that feeling of responsibility, of caring so much about a person that she would give up everything that is worth fighting for just so that another person doesn't have to worry.

Well, not until Castle, at least. And she knows, without really knowing, that he feels the same about her. His dreams would be filled with images of his own death and her pain. She doesn't need him to tell her that, she can see the hurt written all over him.

She runs her hand across his knee, smoothing over his soft sweatpants in comfort, "I'm here, Castle. I'm right here."

He grasps her hand, needing to feel her, to know without a doubt that she is right there with him. It's a move of desperation, needing to know that she is solid beneath his fingertips, that she won't be taken away from him in a moment by a gunshot, or that he will be taken away from her. Because as much pain as it would cause him to lose her, as much heartache and loneliness would come from her death, he can't imagine a worse pain than having that inflicted on somebody he loves.

And so he holds fast to her.

She just watches him watch their hands, the way his are tracing across hers and the way hers react; it's almost a dance. She doesn't feel it when his eyes shift, doesn't know exactly when the mood in her apartment got quite so charged, but she does feel his breath on her cheek as he leans over. She feels his lips follow the warm path left in the wake. She feels him take their coffees and move them out of the way. Where? She doesn't care, not when his now heated hands roam around her waist, across her back and hold her to him so tightly.

His lips at her ear, he whispers, "I don't want to look at you through a window anymore," she shivers as a rush of warmth takes her over. His lips dip to her neck and then they're back at her ear, tracing the outside, making her forget everything but the feel of him, the heavy comfort she has found in his embrace, "So I'm climbing through."

And then his lips are on hers. He can feel the smoothness of her skin and taste the sweet and savoury all at once; the scent of coffee and Beckett invading his senses.

But what he feels most is that she doesn't kiss him back.

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