Accompanying graphic (modified link): rewritetheending dot tumblr dot com slash post slash 147917508157
Rated K+
Angst/Romance
Set after Target/Hunt (5x15/5x16)

She'd turned her head when the scream had torn through the hallway, the sound leaving scratches on the walls but retracting its claws in the face of her nonchalance; it had died at her feet when she hadn't bothered to move toward the man who'd opened his mouth and let it free.

It had been up to Castle to silence it, one way or another.

So she had given her partner – that role more loaded now than ever – the time he'd needed to get answers and no small amount of retribution, standing far enough away from where Castle was interrogating the kidnapper's driver to claim ignorance, even as she'd suddenly learned too much.

Later, back at the precinct, she'd feigned some appropriate level of surprise, telling him she hadn't thought he had that side to him.

But she'd known.

And perhaps it should have concerned her more than it had. She'd tried to tell herself that whatever he'd done to that man was in line with she'd already observed when he'd been slow to pull his fist from Hal Lockwood and quick to pull the trigger against Jerry Tyson. Castle was unabashedly protective of his loved ones, with a dark edge that could rival her own, so she'd let his newest offense slide with the justification that it was more of the same.

That had been over a week ago. And now nothing was the same.

Sure, Alexis had been saved in Paris and they'd all celebrated with a gluttonous breakfast at the loft. There had been hugs and smiles, kisses and laughter, a family reunited and a nightmare forgotten. Except she knows as well as anyone that the bad stuff doesn't like to be wiped away so neatly, that it continues to spill and stain and seep into everything good.

She assumes that's why she's been alone every night since it happened. Castle had promised to include her in future rescue missions, but had made no such vow about sharing a bed again. Or a quiet meal. Or even a conversation. Whatever temporary high had been granted upon his return from France had faded by that evening, yet to offer any hope of the domesticity they'd enjoyed before his daughter had been taken. And she can't be certain the turning point was leaving him alone to talk to that driver, but that's the moment she wants to change. That's the memory that hurts the most.

Rolling over to reach for her phone, her body protesting after hours of immobility, she's tempted to break his silence with the force he's turned on her more than once, the unspoken love and almost palpable fear inherently wrapped around conversations nobody wants to have. She trembles with the need to reassure him, a tear falling at the knowledge that her words won't be enough. Not until he's ready to listen.

And she's pushed him away so many times, it would be unfair to refuse him the same right.

When he finally comes to her – and she has to believe he will – she'll bury her face against his neck and press love into his skin. She'll remind them of their friendship and everything they've become since, welcoming him home as soon as he whispers a simple hello.

His head is tilted awkwardly against the back of the leather chair in his office, but the open door affords him a view of an empty bed, and his fist clenches against the empty glass in his hand. She won't be crawling beneath the sheets any time soon; her side of the bed had been cold for several nights now, and he can't expect that to change until his penance is paid.

It's entirely self-inflicted, of course. His worst punishments always have been.

His eyes slipped closed, but the moment of darkness reminds him too much of standing in that bedroom, staring down at the man who'd eventually yielded to his will. It's why he's been unable to sleep, why he's dulled everything – the good just as assuredly as the bad – with too much liquor and too little companionship. He's been vigilant about keeping Alexis in sight for as long as she can stand it, but when she slips away, he banishes himself to the rooms that force him to feel Kate, even while he won't allow himself the embrace of the women herself.

He's supposed to be the source of light in her life; how can he ask her to hold him after he's brought them more darkness?

In his more logical hours, he's able to argue with himself. They've worked together for years and this isn't the first time the shadier parts of his life have clouded hers. Damian Westlake tested them, Sophia Turner almost got them killed, but they'd managed to come out of those cases with their partnership intact, maybe even strengthened. And he doesn't regret doing everything he could to save his daughter. Obviously.

Still, something had shifted when he'd returned to Kate's side that afternoon, pushed even further when she'd wanted to know what had happened in that bedroom, as though stripping him bare would have done either of them any good.

She'd needed deniability; he'd needed to forget.

Now, even with bourbon humming in his veins, there's no forgetting any of it and he's not sure he'll be able to forgive. Not his father, not himself, and not Kate, though she's guilty of nothing but following his lead.

Sighing, he leans forward to slide his glass onto the surface of his desk, exchanging it for his phone and marveling at the weight of it against his palm, a technological albatross. The press of his thumb gifts him with her smile, some mixture of condemnation and absolution in her eyes, and he swipes her away to enter his passcode.

It's so late, but he longs for his lover – needs his friend even more – and he wills himself to make it past the point at which he's thrown his phone aside every other night. Only a few more seconds and they can both begin to heal, using whatever words he can find until he can feel her heart beat in time with his.

"Castle?"

The hope in her voice is overwhelming, and the emotion lowers his voice to a whisper.

"Hello."