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I'm thinking this might be a two part one, but I'm not sure. I'm literally writing these up as inspiration strikes!

Chapter 5

After leaving the building where Dr. Burke has his office, I look both left and right, as if trying to decide where to go next. On door number one, lies the safety of my home. After everything that unfolded in the past 72 hours, I don't think anyone would blame me if I, once again, played it close to my vest.

Under door numero dos, lies Castle.

It seems that before being able to make any decision these days my mind takes me there: "What would Castle do."

Literally.

When I get home late at night, too tired to think about food, I hear his voice mocking the take-out temple that is my fridge, try my very best to accept his scolding as what it is, an invitation for me to eat better. Similarly, when I'm exhausted and sweating after an intense Yoga session, I contemplate holding off on the shower, thinking that maybe he'd interrupt me with a knock on my door, questioning with his eyes what was I doing.

As personal as those are, his questioning voice is in my head when I make professional decisions and he's not there. Like, if I'm doing paperwork, I often have to stop my internal voice from sounding much like Castle's, adding unnecessary adjectives or writing down some of his most out there theories as ideas we pretended were leads when we had no better ones to follow.

And he's even there when I make personal decisions he's never helped me make before. Like, should I take a shower or a bath? Should I bring a glass of wine with me if I'm having a bath? What should I wear when I go to sleep? Something sexy for him to ogle, or something comfortable, for the two of us to snuggle with the knowledge that we're past the need of seduction to fall into bed together at the end of the day?

And yes. I do wonder what would Castle chose when I'm choosing my underwear, often gravitating towards my sexier outfits, ones I bought with him in mind after the shooting, having recently renewed them all both because I've become even smaller since then and because I didn't want them to be tainted by the memories of other men taking them off me.

Even now, as I look left and right coming out from a grueling session with Burke, in which I acknowledged that yes I do have PTSD after my shooting, Castle is with me, his voice clear in my head despite him being miles away. Just minutes ago, for the first time since it happened, I was bold enough to make Castle's words my own: ever since my mother's murder, I've allowed it to define me.

I've been hiding behind it, and in relationships that I knew would fail, because I've been afraid to find out who I would be if I ever closed her case, if I ever caught the man who was behind it all.

Always one to push me in the right direction, even if refusing to flat out tell me what I should do, Burke pushed me towards Castle at the end of the session. Suggested I spent some time thinking if he'd been right when he called me out for hiding behind her murder.

But I don't need time to know this. He was right when accused me of hiding behind her murder. And the first step to solving a problem is recognizing that it's there. So, I might as well start addressing it now.

Decision made, I turn to the left, towards the loft, resolutely. I told Burke earlier this week that I needed to be fixed, and the only way to get better is by putting in the work. I know that now. Or maybe, I've always known it. But I'm tired of knowing that something has to change: it's about time I actually did something about it and changed it.

When I'm just a few blocks away, I stop at a coffee shop I know he likes and order two coffees, one the way he likes it, and one for me. But against every fiber of my body, I ask for it to be decaf: as much as we both refuse to acknowledge this brown liquid as actual coffee, I don't think 8PM on a Thursday, after solving a big enough case that I actually got tomorrow and the entire weekend off, is the right time for caffeine.

Once I'm armed with what I hope he'll read as a peace offering and a thank you, despite the lack of caffeine and let's be honest, my probable unwillingness to voice my thinking, I head towards his home, nod at the doorman and take the elevator to his floor. Unsure I'd be able to knock with a hand without dropping our treats, I quick the door a few times, hoping the quick succession made it clear someone was on the other side and hoped to be allowed in.

I don't have to wait long for an answer, as Castle opens the door in one swift motion, presumably having checked who was on the other side or having gotten a heads up from the doorman. I make a mental note to inquire about this, since I want to make sure I can actually surprise him from time to time if our relationship ever goes beyond partners. Better yet, when it does, as I'm confident that sooner or later, it will.

"I guess it's true," he says to me, as a greeting.

"What is?" I deadpan, though I know he can read beyond my tone, know I'm in too good a mood despite it all to be frustrated at him for his cryptic remarks.

"That if you want something long enough and strong enough, it will appear, as if had been summoned," he says. Noting my silence, he quickly amends: "I was speaking about the coffee, of course."

"Well Castle, I feel I should warn you that my attempt at paying my partner back for the one hundred coffees I owe him begins with the wrong foot… they are, after all, decaf," I say.

"That's OK, since the last one I gave you lacked that special boost we both crave when at the precinct," Castle says, a smile clear on his face when he reaches out to grab the cup with his name on it. "Would you like to come in detective? I'm home alone, and was about to browse some menus, debating between Italian and Thai …"

"How about homemade Castle?" I say, stepping in while extending my coffee to him so I can take my coat off. I contemplate doing the same with my shoes, but as confident as I am in my decision to come here tonight, I don't mind that extra kick I get from wearing heels that make me almost as tall as he is.

"Sure, anything specific on your mind?"

"Well, if you have all the ingredients, I believe I still remember how to make this great meat sauce my mom used to make that is perfect for a nice pasta… After the past few days, I think we could both use some comfort food…" I say.

"Well, if I don't have it, we can get it. Meat, tomato sauce and carbs sound quite perfect right now," Castle answers.

Seeing the glint in his eyes I know that the fact that I just pealed several layers of the Beckett onion with just two sentences is not lost to him. I revealed that I do in fact, know how to cook, I shared a memory from my mother with him, and Castle being Castle, he knows I chose a recipe that will take us at least 90 minutes, revealing that despite the exhaustion, I want to spend some time with him.

As we work around his kitchen, sometimes bumping into each other, silent apologies unnecessary but still offered, I cannot help but think that a part of me is chickening out: we talk about many thing, like Alexis' and Martha's latest adventures, he runs some plot ideas for his next book, and I let him change the bandage in my right arm, sharing some of what happened with him but not all.

Yet not once do I tell him that he was right, nor do I attempt to throw myself at him as I always thought I would if I ever felt brave enough to take the next step.

But then I hear Burke's suggestion play in my head, as a justification perhaps, but also as an encouragement: the wall around my heart was not built in one day, even if it was my mom's murder that led me to put up the foundations. I cannot be expected- by myself or anyone else- to tear the wall down in one night.

Hopefully, he will see that in my bringing him coffee, shedding some layers of the Beckett onion and seating closer to him on the couch as we share our master piece, means that one of the bricks that hold the whole thing together just came down, probably loosening up some of those around it.

hoping that one of these days, I'll be bold enough to dive in with him.

Beckett's final confession to her therapist essentially acknowledges Castle's critique of her in "Knockout". Namely, that she let herself be defined by her mother's murder, was hiding from having real relationships because of it and was afraid to find out who she'd be if she ever caught her mother's murderer.