Thank you all for your thoughtful comments, they really mean a lot! Hope you enjoy, and I look forward to hearing what you think.

It's been a few days since he's heard from her.

Well, her voice, anyway. They've been texting on and off throughout the day for the past week since he's been home, but he hasn't talked to her on the phone in a couple of days.

They've been steering clear of any topics that are too serious, too deep, and staying in the route of more general, easy going conversations instead. He wants to hear more about her, her life, what's happened to her, but right now they're steadily building up their friendship and he doesn't want to push too hard too fast. He's quickly understanding that he has to be be very careful when picking a course of action; know when to push, know when to back off, and don't risk her pulling away.

She's like a rubber band; pull too hard and it snaps, breaks apart. He doesn't want her to break.

It's still early, the morning sun peeking through the windows and illuminating everything in a soft, golden glow. He's been awake for a few hours, again having gotten up much earlier than he normally would; he doesn't know why he keeps waking up earlier and earlier with each passing day, but he chooses to attribute it to the travel doing odd things to his sleep schedule. It's happened before, so it wouldn't be the first time the exhaustion and long hours took a toll on his body. He doesn't, however, admit that his inability to sleep all night probably has something to do with the girl with the chestnut hair and piercing hazel eyes.

He's been sitting in his study for the past hour, his third cup of coffee sitting next to him, trying desperately to get a few more chapters out to send to Gina – fire ants, Rick – when his phone buzzes. A smile breaks out on his face when he sees her name light up across the screen.

"Well hello there," he answers happily, significantly more upbeat than he was a few seconds ago.

She lets out an amused puff of air. "Someone's in a good mood."

"You just saved me from my uncooperative muse, I'm great," he smirks, moving the laptop off of his legs and onto his desk.

He can hear silent breathing on the other end.

"You were writing," she says, a statement rather than a question. "I'm sorry, I should let you-"

He shakes his head. "Kate, please. I should be thanking you for calling."

"You should be thanking me for interrupting your work?"

"Yes," he tells her firmly.

She huffs. "And why is that?"

"Because, you see, I was about three seconds away from sending a less than pleasant, highly sarcastic email to my publisher with a picture of fire ants." He ignores her noise of confusion. "It's a long story. So, therefore, you saved me from what would have likely been a catastrophic fallout."

"Well I'm glad I could save you from the wrath of your publisher, then," she lets out a small laugh.

He moves out of his study and into the kitchen, easily sliding around the island to grab himself a glass of water. The piece of cake in the fridge is tempting him, practically calling his name, so he shoves a few items to the side and takes it out, putting it on a plate.

"How are you doing?" he asks, phone clutched tightly between his chin and shoulder as he tries to carry the plate and glass without dropping either.

A pause. "I'm good," she says, and it's those few seconds of silence that leave him to believe there's more to the truth than what's being said. "How are you?"

She's quick to defer the question onto him, to avoid elaborating on her own answer, but he doesn't comment. She called, and if she just wants to have a pleasant conversation, then he can do that.

He's more than happy to do that. Just hearing her voice is enough for him.

"I've just been writing," he says, shrugging to himself. "Or, trying to, at least. Other than that, it's pretty much business as usual. I took Alexis to The Met the other day."

"I used to love going there as a kid," Kate tells him, divulging yet another piece of information to him. He can hear the smile in her voice and wishes she was there, with him, so he could take in the beauty of her smile in person. "I bet you guys had fun."

He nods. "Alexis loves it," he grins. "It was a new exhibit on Ancient Egypt. She ran around the whole place, just soaking it all in. She got upset that she couldn't read all of them in the three hours we were there. I had to practically drag her out."

She laughs on the other end, quiet and natural and just like her. "That's adorable."

"Were you and your parents as excited about the exhibits when you were little?"

He hears her sharp intake of breath and suddenly worries that he's just asked too personal a question.

Good job, Rick. She's trying to forget and move forward, distance herself from her disastrous past, and he's just now realizing that she hasn't exactly talked about her parents with him. Maybe this brings up too many memories, memories she's trying to forget. He wasn't thinking, he shouldn't have asked-

"I was," she admits, cutting into his thoughts. The lack of sadness in her voice lets him release the breath he's been holding. "We were. My parents would take me to the interactive exhibits on the weekends. I'd run wild. I got lost in my fair share of exhibits, actually. I was a handful."

She lets out a wistful chuckle, as if she's remembering specific moments, reliving them, and his heart swells at the sound.

He's picturing a young Kate, petite and full of energy, zipping through the halls of The Met, and he smiles. He has no doubt that she was adorable, because how could she not have been, and it makes him wonder what she actually looked like at that age. Did she have long hair? Short hair? Was she short? Tall? He imagines that the general consensus would be tall, given her height now, but he's inclined to believe the opposite. He bets she was just a tiny little one, smaller than most of her classmates, before shooting up like a sprout once she hit a certain age. Did she have braces? Glasses? There are so many things he wants to know about her, about what she was like before she was forced to grow up all too soon, but he doesn't think it's the right time to ask.

The questions are stored in his brain, though, locked away until it's appropriate to find out the answers.

"I'm sure your parents loved that," he laughs.

She snorts. "They threatened to make me wear a bell on more than one occasion so they'd know where I was."

He's laughing now, shaking his head at the mental image. "How'd that end?"

"Never really panned out," she shrugs.

He takes a chance and asks her another question about her childhood but she just gives a noncommittal noise in response, and he takes that as a cue to change the subject. "So, what are you doing today?"

"Not too sure. I might head down to Babs, see how Tony's doing," she sighs. She doesn't exactly have anything planned; there's not too much to do in Ann Arbor if you aren't a tourist or a college kid perusing the town in between classes.

"Tell Tony I said hi, would you?"

"I will," she agrees. "Looks like you've got a few new fans here in Ann Arbor."

"Tony?" he asks, his interest piqued.

The older man admitted that he hasn't read any of his books since he's too busy with the bar - which is absolutely understandable, and Rick doesn't mind that he hasn't read any of his works.

But wait-

She said fans, didn't she? Plural.

She hums. "Yeah, he asks me how you're doing every so often." She rolls her eyes. Tony's been asking how Castle is, and she knows that it's just his clever way of finding out if she's still talking to him. "And the pool crew, of course. Heard Nikita talking about your figure skating debut."

"Oh no," he groans. He wasn't awful, but by no means does he think he'll be winning an Olympic medal anytime soon for his performance.

"Don't worry, Castle, you don't come off looking all that bad." She pauses, bringing a hand to cover her mouth, just barely suppressing the amused laughter that's itching to bubble out of her. "Maybe a bit like bambi on ice, but..."

He grimaces jokingly, thoroughly appreciating the visual she's set up for him. As horrid as it sounds, he's fairly certain that's exactly what he looked like on the ice.

He can see it now.

Richard Castle, starring in a new live show: Bambi on Ice. The headlines practically write themselves.

Kate sits in her apartment, the television on in the background to provide something to listen to other than the deafening silence.

She went to Babs earlier and talked to Tony, who she's slowly but surely been opening up to. He's a friendly older man and she sees no reason not to talk to him, engage in some nice conversation, maybe drop a few breadcrumbs of information about her life. He does the same, telling her about his wife - who's a few years younger than him - and how they were high school sweethearts. That's too adorable, she thinks; she's glad they've managed to stay together after all these years. She asked him why she's never seen her, why she doesn't come around the bar too often, and he said it's because she works at the local school and spends most of her time prepping for classes and working with her students. She sounds like a nice woman, and hopefully she'll get to meet her someday.

She had a few drinks; nothing too hard, and not more than two.

But that was all a few hours ago and now she's at a loss.

The couch is inviting, the cushions calling out to her, begging and pleading with her to sit down, take a nap, but she doesn't. She can't. The nightmares have been coming back, haunting her while she sleeps and ripping her from her unconscious state. She hasn't taken a nap since they've reappeared and she doesn't plan on breaking that pattern today.

So she stays up, follows the same default response every time this happens.

It's getting better, slowly, even if it may not seem like it is at the time. A month ago she would be running to the bar, downing drink after drink until she can't physically remember enough to care about the nightmares. As tempting as that complete oblivion is, she doesn't return to it.

She's past that.

The only problem with this new tactic is that now she needs to find another way to deal with the nightmares, to keep her mind occupied long enough for her to get a few hours of uninterrupted rest.

She sighs, rubbing her hands over her tired, sunken eyes, and stands from her spot in the armchair. The apartment isn't atrocious; there's no garbage covering her floors or dust bunnies rolling around, but she cleans anyway. It's something to do, a way to keep herself busy and awake, and so like anything else she does, she goes at it full force.

There's a bucket next to her as she kneels on the kitchen floor, bony knees digging into the hard surface. She ignores the pain that settles in her joints as she stays in the position and just grabs a sponge, doing her best to wash away the dirt along with the tormenting images of the nightmares.

She has a mop, has a swiffer, but she doesn't use them. That'd be too quick, wouldn't occupy her in the way she needs.

The floors are scrubbed, the garbage is taken out, the pyramid of takeout containers from who knows when are thrown out, and she scrubs down all of the surfaces in her immediate vicinity. She even goes as far as to wash the windows - twice - to make sure there aren't any streaks running down them. The bathroom is now spotless and under any other circumstances she'd be proud of her work; the tiled floors are sparkling enough to eat off of - she won't, of course - and the mirror is clear as day, highlighting the worn out features of her face in extreme high definition.

Great.

She takes a second to glance at the reflection, wincing faintly at the sight in front of her.

It's not as awful as it was previously, though, so she can't really complain. The bags under her eyes are marginally more prominent only because of the lack of sleep, but she isn't as pale, doesn't look as rough and zombie-like as she has in the past. She takes this as progress.

It takes time, she tells herself over and over again, the mantra slowly losing meaning with every use.

But she sticks with it, regardless.

She knows it's for the best, knows that if she wants to get her life back to a state that she's content with, then this is what she has to do. It'll be hard - hell, it is hard - but she's a fighter. Always has been, always will be. It wasn't as clear for a while; there was a gray area when she just wanted to throw in the towel, when she could've potentially went either way, but somewhere deep down, beneath the pain and the despair, it was still there. Her formidable nature, floating in the background of the darkness, giving her surges of strength when she needed it most.

This is just another fight.

And it's one she's determined to win.

She knows she's lost more weight - again - because despite all of the groceries Castle bought her last week, she can't bring herself to make proper meals. She started off strong, making fresh salads and sandwiches every day, but then she stopped, the motivation slowly evaporating into nothing. That's her own fault, she knows, but she plans on fixing it. She'll start back up tomorrow.

She will. She has to.

People are going to notice, Kate, she whispers to herself almost daily, but they don't. And if they do, they - graciously - don't say anything. She gets looks from people she's known for a while, people who know just how much weight she's lost, but the stares are as far as they go. It's a sensitive subject in general and she's thankful for that, in a sick kind of way, because she's fairly certain that's the only reason why no one says anything.

When there's nothing left that can possibly be cleaned she finally stops, puts away all of the supplies, and makes her way to her bedroom.

It's getting late, late enough that she should realistically be heading to bed now, but she just stares at the bed, a frown on her face. She's tired, damn near exhausted, but she knows the odds of a peaceful sleep are not in her favor. Why even try when she know she'll, more likely than not, just be woken up? It's a waste, and it's annoying to deal with.

She's angry at herself, as if it's her own fault that they're back. They died down for a while and it was beautiful, the nights filled with a blissful slumber, but she should've known it wouldn't last. Funnily enough, the days they ceased were the days Castle was in town and the two days after he left and they talked on the phone.

She shakes her head, willing herself to believe that it was just the distraction of the phone call that helped and not actually him.

Her dresser drawers are being opened and closed as she searches for something to put on, her forehead creased in lingering frustration. She finally just grabs a pair of pajama pants and a white t-shirt, discarding her current clothes as she changes into what she's just taken out. She practically moans as the soft cotton glides over her skin, a stark contrast to the feel of the jeans and sweater she was previously wearing.

There's something about changing into pajamas at the end of the day that's so inexplicably satisfying.

Her blankets welcome her, envelop her in a cocoon of warmth as she curls beneath them, pulling the edges of the comforter up to her shoulders. She rolls onto her side and switches off the light, but she doesn't close her eyes. Instead, she lays in the darkness, eyes peeled open as she fights the fatigue.

But eventually sleeps wins out, coaxing her into a land of dreams.

She's jolted awake a few hours later, her body coated in a thin layer of sweat despite the frigid chill of the room. Her breathing is ragged and coming in short and choppy bursts as she runs her hands over her face. She keeps them there for a few seconds, her body completely still in the sheets.

Just breathe.

In, out. In, out.

She takes a few deep breaths, effectively bringing her heart rate back down and calming herself in the process.

This is getting ridiculous. She can't deal with these nightmares anymore, pulling her from her sleep in the middle of the night, waking her in a state of panic and sweat. The irritation alone is enough to bring her to tears but she blinks them away, refusing to give them that power over her this time.

This was one of the more unpleasant nightmares; they're becoming more rare, more spaced out in their occurrence, but when they do come back, they're brutal.

She screws her eyes shut and the images flood back, one after another, grainy like a bad drive-in movie screen. It's the alleyway, tinges of red congregating into a puddle on the ground and on the body laying in it, lifeless eyes staring back at her. Eyes that look so much like her own. No matter what she does she can't shake that mental picture; it's ingrained in her mind, a stamp, a tattoo that she didn't ask for, that she doesn't want.

"Pull yourself together," she whispers to herself in the empty room, nothing but pitch black surrounding her.

It's eerily quiet; no sirens outside, no pedestrians wandering the streets, no car horns blaring.

She needs a distraction, something to focus on.

She knows one thing that's proved to help keep the nightmares at bay, but she's hesitant. It's almost four in the morning; it's by no means an acceptable hour to be awake, let alone call and possibly wake someone else up.

But he made her promise to call if she needs anything.

As much as she'd like to ignore it, pretend she doesn't actually need anything, she promised him. And Kate Beckett doesn't go back on her promises.

She fumbles for her phone - which is still sitting on her nightstand from earlier - and grabs it with trembling fingers. She squints immediately upon opening the phone, the bright light blinding her, making it almost impossible to see the screen.

His number is there, illuminating in the otherwise complete darkness, taunting her, pleading with her to just call him.

So she does.

It rings a few times without an answer and it dawns on her that he's most likely asleep - of course he's asleep - and she's already kicking herself for assuming he might be awake, for even calling him at all. She's about to hang up and figure out a solution on her own-

But then he answers.

"Kate?" His voice is dripping with concern, the emotion evident even through the gritty, sleep ridden tone. That alone tells her that she's woken him up.

Stupid. Stupid, Kate.

"I'm sorry," she says immediately, her voice wavering as she suddenly doubts her decision to call him. "Go back to sleep."

He clears his throat. "I'm awake." It's clearly a lie, but her lips quirk upwards at his attempt nonetheless. "Are you okay?"

She doesn't answer, just bites her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Another nightmare?" he asks quietly, knowingly.

Bless this man for figuring it out, for not making her say it out loud, for understanding.

"Yeah," she whispers.

He waits a few seconds. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," she shakes her head, the movement pointless since he can't see it. "Can you just..."

"What is it?"

She sighs. "Can you- will you just... stay on the line with me? I mean, it's just, the sound of- it helps-"

She doesn't know how to get it out. How do you say the sound of your voice is ridiculously comforting for reasons I don't understand and I need it to help me sleep without sounding too needy or clingy? Is there a way? If there is, she sure as hell doesn't know what it is. She isn't good at this - asking for help, expressing her need for help in a way that doesn't make her regret it the moment it leaves her mouth.

"Of course," he cuts her off, seems to understand what she needs, and someone give his man a medal already. His voice is genuine, no hints of judgement present, but that's exactly what she's come to expect from him. "Whatever you need."

"Thank you," she murmurs quietly on an exhale.

She hears him yawn over the receiver, prompting one of her own. "Goodnight, Kate."

"Goodnight."

He's still on the line when she removes the phone from her ear and places it on the bed next to her pillow. It's on speaker now and she can hear the sound of his breathing clearly, the constant rhythm just the lullaby she needed to hear. She hears him whispering comforting words and phrases every so often and it pulls her under even more, his deep voice soothing her aching body from the inside out.

The words trail off and his breathing evens out, letting her known he's fallen back asleep. She just listens for a while, her eyes closed still, soaking in the comfort she gains from such a simple act.

Sleep consumes her once again, the sound of his steady breathing lulling her into the delightful paradise of the unconscious.

Nightmares don't wake her up again that night.