When Castle shivers against her, not from her ministrations, but from the cold that trickles through his clothes along with the rain, Kate breaks the kiss and detaches her body from his, shuddering immediately at the lack of warmth.

"Let's go back to that cabin you saw," she suggests, linking her fingers with his and tugging him after her.

The rain is *cold*. How can it be so cold when twenty minutes ago, she was sweating and cursing at the stifling heat? She picks up the pace, starts running, Castle following her lead.

Thank god, they don't have to go far; he stopped her before she could drag them any further.

The wooden construction is not really a cabin, but it's bigger than a shed. Kate closes the door after Rick, and wraps her arms around herself, tries to rub some warmth back into her body.

The small room is arranged so that hikers can halt or rest here; a wooden table, two benches around it. It's pretty basic, but right now Kate isn't looking for anything more than a roof.

She gets rid of her backpack, puts it down on the bench, her teeth chattering all along. Castle isn't faring much better; he keeps muttering under his breath, and she catches the words "fuck" and "cold" quite a few times.

"Quit complaining, Castle," she orders, but her voice is too shaky for it to have any real authority.

She cuts her eyes to him, finds him shrugging off his shirt. The heat flares in her belly, sudden and unmistakable, as she stares at his strong back, the muscles working under the skin of his shoulders –

"What are you doing?" She asks before she can help herself.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He shoots back, turning to her. "We'll freeze to death if we stay in these clothes, Kate."

Freeze to death.

He seems to realize his unfortunate choice of words, winces as his eyes meet hers. She gives him a pale smile, shrugs.

"Been there, done that," she jokes half-heartedly.

He sighs, closes his eyes for a second, swallows.

"Come here," he says, his fingers closing on her forearm, pulling her into him.

She rests her forehead against his jaw, brushes a kiss to the faint stubble under his chin. He shivers.

"God, Kate, you're freaking cold. Get this off, love."

He tugs at her shirt and she obeys, slides the cotton fabric over her head before dropping it onto the table. She arches an eyebrow at him.

"Always trying to get me naked, uh?"

He gives her a look that she's not quite sure how to interpret, but it's definitely not the lustful leer she was aiming at. It's a too grave look, the lines around his mouth too serious, and Kate can't bear to see them.

She darts forward, her lips meeting his with little warning, her hands curling around his face, palms brushing his cheeks.

After a second his arms come around her, tighten at her back, but he keeps the kiss gentle. Delicate. Like she's a flower and he's carefully gathering nectar from her mouth; like she's fine china and he's afraid to break her.

But she won't break, she won't.

She presses her body to his, promises thrumming inside her, yearning to be voiced. But there are other ways, better ways, and the hand resting flat on his chest drifts down, down –

He stays her fingers, catching them lightly in his own, and sighs into her mouth.

"Kate."

It kills her, the restraint in his voice, the soft but determined refusal. She breaks away, stares at him, her chest small and cramped.

She tries to read him, tries to understand. But they work so differently; and she has no idea what he needs.

At last she surrenders, stoops to asking.

"What, Castle? What can I *do*?" She hates the tremble in her voice, stiffens her spine, steels herself. "Tell me. Tell me what I can do to make this better."

Obviously, she's not going about this the right way – but if he could just explain, could just…

"I…" He groans in frustration, runs a hand through his copper hair. "I don't –"

Her heart sinks.

She didn't do this on purpose. She could never have guessed that he'd wait for hours outside her apartment, would think she was inside and not answering him. But still, this feels like her fault all the same, because she needed space, because she never talked about it until now.

Tears sting against her eyelids. This will not do. She can't feel guilty for being herself. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip.

"Please, Castle."

He gives her a surprised look, probably thrown off by the pleading she didn't mean to let out.

"I never meant to hurt you," she breathes, her thumb caressing his mouth.

"I know," he answers immediately, his own hand splaying on her waist, large and warm.

"Then *help* me, goddamn it," she urges. "Help me make this better. Don't make me feel guilty for something I had no idea about."

"I don't know how, Kate," he exclaims, growing indignant as she does. "I don't *know* what will help."

They stare at each other for a moment, worked up and powerless at the same time, until Kate steps away, runs her hands through her long, wet, tangled hair. Okay. Okay.

Through the little window of the cabin, she can see that the rain is still pouring outside; it doesn't look like it will stop anytime soon.

A flash of inspiration rushes through her.

She turns back to her husband, notices his slumped shoulders, the sadness in his eyes. Her throat burns. But no. She can make this better.

She knows she can.

"Sit down, Rick," she says softly, cherishing the flicker of hope and love that crosses his blue eyes when he looks at her. She won't let this break them.

Won't let anything break them. Not ever.

One and done.

"I'm going to tell you a story," she says.

She makes him sit on the bench, but she won't join him. He watches her lithe form as she paces, the energy that rolls off her, all long limbs and svelte line.

After a minute she lets out a deep sigh and stills, leaning against the wall in front of him. She's not looking at him, but that's okay. He understands.

Distance – distance is the only way she knows not to break.

Which, of course, is the reason why he got hurt in the first place. But he pushes that down now, locks up the dark feelings, gives her his attention. Of the two of them, *he* is the storyteller. He's the one who feels the power of the printed letter, loves it, plays with it – the one who writes novels about her.

So yeah. He's curious about Kate's story.

She licks her lips, uncurls her hands and rests them flat on her thighs.

"Once upon a time," she says, her voice low but carrying, "there was a little girl. She wasn't anything special, no different from hundreds of little girls – she had a mommy and a daddy who loved her, and she was happy. Some children want a little brother or sister, but she… didn't feel like there was anything missing."

Ah. He vaguely senses where this is going, and he understands why she made him sit down. It's going to be hell, keeping himself from reaching out to her.

"Except, one day, the girl's mom got killed. Just, like that. She could not understand it. It didn't make any sense. Why would anyone want to kill her mom? No one could give her a good explanation. Just – flimsy excuses. And they all seemed happy with it. Because her mom was dead, nothing could be done."

Her voice, when she started, was calm and measured; now it sounds like she's swallowing sobs, pushing them back with her anger for a shield. Castle grinds his teeth, his fingers clenching around the bench.

Is this supposed to help him? Because it's not helping.

It's not. He just wants to wrap her in his arms and kiss this better. Make her go quiet.

But she's inhaling slowly, and starting again.

"She had to know why. She needed to understand. It was the only way, the only way to – make the pain stop. There was this large, heavy rock sitting on the girl's chest, and the only way she could lift it enough to breathe was by telling herself that she would find the person responsible. She couldn't accept it, Castle. She needed – answers."

Kate looks at him, her eyes wide and pleading. Apologizing. He can only nod silently, his lips parted on the words that won't come out, trapped somewhere between his lungs and his throat.

"So she devoted herself to that quest for truth, because it allowed her to fight the darkness back, gave her space to stand. Space where she didn't have to be hunched and… crippled by the pain."

Oh god, Kate. He tries to swallow; his mouth feels sticky, uncomfortably dry.

"It went on for a long time. And at one point she tried – she tried to stop, tried to live her own life instead, to focus on people, but… It couldn't – it wouldn't –"

She presses her lips together and shakes her head; he watches her hungrily, the sweep of her dark lashes against her cheek as she closes her eyes, remembers.

But then she lightens and glances at him, a smile dancing on the edge of her lips.

"And then this man came along. At first she thought he was a punk. That he couldn't take anything seriously, that life was a game for him. But as she grew to know him – as he grew to know her – things changed. They became friends. In fact, he became her best friend." She smiles, her close-lipped smile, the one he loves, and something bursts open into Castle's chest.

His legs tingle with the urge to get up, touch her, but he stays where he is. He can't tell the story isn't done yet.

"And she did something very risky, something she hadn't done in many years. Something she probably wouldn't have done for anyone else." Kate bites her lip, meets his eyes. "She let him in."

Castle's heart is pounding furiously, echoing in his ears so that he has to lean forward, make sure he gets everything. He's not sure why – he knows this story, or part of it – he's *lived* it.

He just…never thought he'd get her version. Not like this.

"Of course, it didn't happen at once. It was slow, and for the most part, not exactly deliberate." She flashes him a nervous little grin; he gives it back to her.

Oh, he knows that she didn't let him in on purpose. He had to work at her, work at Kate Beckett, day after day, coffee after coffee, and to be honest, he's rather proud of himself for this.

"But one day, she woke up and realized that this was it. That the man had wiggled his way into her life, insinuated himself in every corner, and now there was no way she could get him out. She…wouldn't have known where to start, had she wanted to."

"She didn't?"

He promised himself he wouldn't interrupt, but damn. This is just. Wow.

Kate looks at him from under her eyelashes, one of those shy, hesitant looks that aren't Beckett at all. Just…Kate.

"She didn't," she murmurs. "She…needed him."

He's not breathing, and he doesn't even care. He wants to get up, hold her; he wants to –

Kate seems to feel this. She gets closer, rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. Pushing him back. Story's not over yet.

But he can't deal with her being so far away, and he claims her waist, invites her, begs her with his eyes. She releases her lower lip slowly, and settles down in his lap, her knees on both sides of him, brushing his thighs.

Her fingers draw light patterns on his temple, his cheek, the side of his jaw. Emotion shimmers in her eyes, in and out, like the ocean lapping at the shore.

"He helped her solve her mother's case," she breathes.

"And what happened next?" He's so caught up in this story, their story. He wants, so badly, to understand.

"Castle." His name trembles on her lips as she leans forward, hides her face into his shoulder. After a moment, he feels her draw a shuddering breath against him, and her spine straightens into his hand.

"Do you want to know what I did that day?" She asks, determined now.

He barely has time to nod before she goes on.

"I went home, called my dad. But Castle – he only asked about me, how I felt, what my plans where, and I… I realized. That he was over it; that he had come to terms with her death. Made his peace with it. But I."

She shakes her head; locks of dark, soft hair brush his shoulder, tickling.

"I – didn't. I went chasing after that thing, and that day – catching him –"

He doesn't dare breathe, doesn't want to break her flow, when it seems she's already struggling to find words.

"I realized it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Because I would never get her back."

His heart is breaking; he tightens his arms around her, tries to crush her into him, but she resists, her palms flat on his chest, the familiar, stubborn frown on his face. Let me finish.

"Kate," he murmurs in her ear, wanting to rock her, make it better somehow.

She soldiers on, the words falling messily from her lips, like she's forcing them out.

"And that day, Rick, that day was like trying to walk around with an open hole in my chest. And nothing helped. Not the bath, not your books, not the bike ride. Nothing. Nothing but – you."

Uh. What?

"That day felt like I was dead inside, Castle, and then you. You made me alive again."

He's numb, speechless. He what?

"And that's why I married you. Not because I didn't know what to do, not because I was lost. Because *you* found me. Because you got to me that day when nobody else could. You, Castle."

Oh.

That's all he's able to think for a long time. Oh.

Kate looks into him, her eyes so dark and full and bright – and he believes her. He does. He believes her.

He lets out a long, wonder-filled, relieved breath, and he skims his fingers from her waist to her elbow, her shoulder, her neck, threads them through the mess of dark curls.

And he kisses her.