Author's Note: I want to thank everyone for the reviews, but mostly I want to say a giant thank you for all the concern and support you have shared. Rationally, I know that I am not alone, and that I am neither the first or the last person to experience these things - but it helps to be reminded, because sometimes that is how it feels. Ya know? So thank you, everyone. It means a lot more than you know.

The rhythm of the raindrops as they pattered against the windows was almost perfectly in sync with the steady beat of the heart beneath her ear.

She couldn't say how long she'd been awake, but when she finally opened her eyes Kate was certain of two things. One: her head was pillowed quite comfortably on Castle's chest, the length of her body tucked snugly against his. Two: she did not feel better.

The world and the nightmare were both waiting for her that morning when she woke. She knew it, rationally, on the part of the former; the latter, she knew because she could feel it trying to drown her even at that very moment.

She thought it was fitting that the rain had not let up outside. Why shouldn't the physical world resemble her metaphorical one? Why shouldn't the real world be a little dimmer, when she felt as though every light in her life had been completely extinguished?

Castle stirred below her, the arms loosely wrapped around her shifting over her back. Those arms had not released their hold on her even once during the night. She didn't have to ask to know that; she had asked him not to let go, and he had not.

Even now, when they were both awake.

That was another thing she knew without having to ask. He'd been awake almost as long as she'd been, but he continued to hold both her and his silence. She was grateful for that, undeniably grateful that he had not insisted on questioning her the moment he opened his eyes. I'm still adrift in this storm, her heart whispered to him, but you can't pull me in to shore. I can't take another pull, even to safety; you'll pull, and I'll break under the strain. I need a guide, a light to point me in the right direction.

"Just wait for me," She whispered against the soft material of his shirt, "I'll find my way to you."

She hadn't meant to say the last part aloud, but if he heard her then he gave no sign. At least, not immediately anyway; some moments had passed when he started tracing patterns on her back through the shirt, just like he had the night before. She recognized the acknowledgement for what it was, and when she tucked the crown of her head up under his chin she fought back a fresh onslaught of tears.

Cancer, a cruel voice japed in her mind, my father has cancer.

As if the diagnosis itself wasn't enough of a stab in the heart, life or fate or whatever it was had thrown in a sick twist to go with it: it wasn't even liver cancer. It had absolutely nothing to do with the five years of heavy alcoholism after the loss of her mother. Oh no, her father had prostate cancer.

Liver cancer would have been terrible. She knew that – but she also knew that at least liver cancer would make some sort of tragic sense. She could have wrapped her head around that a little easier, she thought, because he had spent those years in the bottle. The reason would have been just as dark and grim as the diagnosis, but at least it would have made sort of sense. Instead … instead this terrible monster had come from somewhere out of the far left field to attack them. Instead of sense, all she had was a particularly evil jest that left her with a heart so heavy it was debilitating. There was no sense in this situation; there was no trail of clues she could follow to find the reason, the underlying motive for why in the hell this was happening to them.

There was no reason. This was just another one of life's senseless monkey wrenches, another sharp twist in her road that was just waiting for her to overcorrect and go over the railing. She knew that. Her rational, empirical brain knew all of that.

Her wounded, bleeding, foolish heart knew only that this was wrong, that it was under attack and it was full to the brim with biting pain and anger. The hidden part of her that housed the little girl inside her heart just kept screaming for reasons, demanding answers and explanations that would never come.

"He called me," She began then, because suddenly the words were there and she had to get them out, "He called me last week, asked if we could go to lunch, but I told him I was busy. When he called me yesterday … I was tired and I just wanted to take a hot bath and relax and … he just dropped the bomb. Prostate cancer."

Castle cleared his throat. "How long has he known?"

"A few weeks. I don't even know how they caught it – I think he may have told me, but I was so shocked I was barely listening. I tried to … I had to get out, and I just found some dive bar and started ordering drinks. I meant to go home, but I must have given the taxi driver your address instead, and when I got out and saw where I was …"

"I'm glad you came here, Kate," He said softly, gently

"Cancer, Castle. He has cancer. It doesn't make any sense!"

Her voice had started breaking toward the end, and she barely had enough time to turn her face into his chest before a few adamant tears fell from her eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the strong arms press her more securely against the broad expanse of his chest. Stop crying, she told herself sternly, get a hold of yourself and figure out what needs to be done. Control, Kate; take control.

How she wanted to! Every independent, rational iota of her person told her to draw herself up that very instant and take control of the situation, assert her power over the circumstances; she was a Detective, a leader, and a warrior. And yet … and yet she found herself unable to meet the task. She found herself suddenly bereft of her weapons, without even ground to stand on. How could she take control of a situation like this? How could she find it in her to be strong and resilient when, inside, all she really wanted to do was drop her warrior's shield and cry with a child's abandon?

"I can't do this, Castle," She cried into his shirt

"Let go," His warm voice whispered against her hair, "Let go, Kate. I'm here; you're safe."

The tears and the grief were vicious in their manifestation. The power of her sobs – honest, unadulterated sobs from the deep reaches of her very soul – shook her small frame with an almost fearful violence. The grief felt as though it would last forever: it was the grief for her father, and then it seemed to swell until it was all the grief she had ever felt, and ever denied. The pain tasted of the loss of her mother, Montgomery, Royce and now … and now, the looming possibility of the loss of her father. Too much loss, too much grief … she was destined to be consumed.

How long did she stay like that? How long did she spend clinging to Richard Castle as if he were the only thing tethering her to herself, to the life and the world they shared? She could not say. Tether her he did, however, patient and tender as she surrendered herself to her vulnerability. Never before had she allowed him in so far past her walls; never before had she trusted him so completely with the tattered remains of her eggshell heart.

Never before had he been gentler; never before had he taken her heart, her very spirit so lightly in hand and willed it safe with all the force of his being. For all her secrecy, for all her stern determination to deny it outwardly, the tenderness of Kate's heart had always been something Castle treasured. The depths of her feelings were uncharted and unseen, perhaps even by herself; beneath her tough cop exterior and the gallows humor she had adopted, Kate's heart was indescribably fragile.

All the crying, mixed in with the pressure that accompanied her hangover, had given Kate a massive headache. By the time her tears had ceased the pounding had begun, so steady that it made her eyes hurt.

"Do you have Ibuprofen?" She asked in a hoarse voice

"Of course."

His lips brushed against her forehead then, and the sweetness of it made her sigh. Underneath her ear, his heart pounded out the same steady, familiar rhythm that had lulled her to sleep the night before.

"Kate?"

"Hmm?"

"We have to get up if you want the Ibuprofen."

"I know." I don't want to move.

She untangled herself from him, pulling herself up onto unsteady feet. The pounding in her head seemed to be the only manifestation of her hangover so far, which she was thankful for. She moved somewhat slowly to look out the window at the city, listening to the sounds of Castle getting up off the couch. The city was still draped in gray clouds and rain; when she glanced at her watch, she was surprised to see it was nearly eleven.

"Hey."

He was near, just a few inches behind her, and his breath tickled her ear when he spoke. She glanced over her shoulder at him; his hand came to settle at the small of her back, and she allowed the pressure he exerted there to guide her into the kitchen.

She took a seat on one of the stools at the kitchen bar and watched quietly as Castle retrieved a glass of water and a bottle of Ibuprofen. He placed both in front of her, and then set about brewing a pot of coffee. She felt as if watching his movements somehow helped settling her mind, as if watching his morning pattern could help center her once more. She was broken, wounded, but life had not stopped; her partner was only a few feet away from her, and despite how helpless she felt he seemed perfectly certain of what to do and how to act.

She was undyingly grateful that in these moments, when Kate herself felt as if she were fraying and unraveling, Castle was perfectly grounded and composed.

He could be grounded and reasonable enough for the both of them.

Here was her guide in the storm.

Here was her lighthouse.

If anyone could pull her through this, it would be Richard Castle. She just had to trust him, have faith that he would guide her away from the rocks that would surely dash her to pieces.

She had never trusted anyone the way she trusted him.

Breakfast was coffee, bagels and freshly sliced apples. He set it all out before her and then seated himself on the adjacent stool. The prospect of food had not entered into her thoughts before then, but she figured that getting something solid into her stomach was probably a good idea. She grabbed a few apple slices and popped one into her mouth as she went about spreading cream cheese on her bagel.

"Where are Alexis and Martha?" She asked after some time had passed

"Ashley is in town this weekend, so Alexis was out of the house early this morning. And who knows where my intrepid mother is? I suspect we will be witnessing her walk of shame soon."

The ghost of a smile graced her features, and she was mildly surprised that she could still manage even that much. A smile had obviously been what he was going for, though, because he gave her a small but warm one in return and reached over to squeeze her hand briefly.

"Thank you, Castle," She said quietly

"No thanks necessary," He said seriously, "Unless it's coming from me."

"Why would you be thanking me?" She inquired

"For coming here. For trusting me enough to let me take care of you."

She had no answer for that. What could she have said? That it had been unintentional? That somehow, her instincts had known to guide her to a safe haven that she had not even considered? That her heart, treacherous, mischievous thing that it was, had led her to the one other heart in the one other person that seemed to be always calling out to her?

She said nothing, because there was nothing to say.

"How's the headache?" He asked

"Getting better. I think the food may have helped, and the coffee."

"Good. First things first: I'm going to hop in the shower and change, and then we'll head to your apartment so you can do the same. You'll probably have to wear my clothes home; I wasn't able to get yours into the dryer, so they are still soaked. Oh, and you'll want to call your dad, let him know we're coming."

"What?" She replied, surprised

"I know you've been dealt a blow, Kate, but you need to see your dad, and he you. And this way, I can ask for all the information he has so far and relay it on. The appointment will go much quicker that way."

"What appointment?"

"The one I'm about to set up. Now finish your breakfast."

Then he was up and gone, content to leave her alone with her thoughts and her bagel. She could hear him on the phone some minutes later, although she could only make out bits and pieces of the conversation. Then the shower was turned on, and there was nothing more to hear.

This was a side of Richard Castle that she rarely got to see: the assertive, focused side that knew exactly what needed to be done and how to do it. She imagined this was the side that Martha and Alexis so regularly saw; this was the other, more serious side of the playful, witty writer that she had spent the last few years working with. He was collected, firm, decided: the exact opposite of his usual light hearted self.

He was taking charge of the situation that had left her reeling, and for once she was glad to let him.

By the time he emerged from his bedroom, Kate had cleaned up the remnants of their small breakfast and made herself as presentable as she could manage. She'd brushed her teeth again and redid her hair; she'd tried to don her own clothing, but he had been right about it still being soaked. She'd considered just putting it on anyway and dealing with it, but wet clothes were uncomfortable in the best situations and chilling in the worst, and it was still raining outside. She did look a bit silly in his overlarge t-shirt and gym shorts, but what did she care? So instead she'd just wrapped her clothes in a tight swaddle and slipped them into a plastic bag she found underneath the kitchen sink.

"Ready?" He asked

"Yeah," She murmured, glancing around to make sure she had everything

He was ushering her out the door when one of his warm hands came to rest at the small of her back, a gentle guide that she was not surprised to find that she enjoyed.

His touch grounded her. She needed it; she needed the reminder that she was not alone, she needed the warmth of his being to infuse her own.

"You're trembling."

His voice was quiet and soft, even in the almost silence of the elevator. She had not realized that she had indeed begun to tremble, but his hand had not left the small of her back so of course he noticed.

"What if this is it, Rick?" She managed to whisper, his first name falling from her lips of its own accord, "What if this is the one that breaks me?"

She had never shared a particularly physical relationship with Castle; more often than not they conveyed their feelings with veiled looks or private words rather than an actual touch. Kate could probably count the number of times they had touched on one hand, maybe two at the most. She had spared some thought for this phenomenon, although not much, and the only conclusion that she had been able to reach was that it was the passion. Their passion for each other was something that they could deny, or ignore, or subjugate as long as they never moved past lingering gazes and words with hidden meanings. Physical contact, however, the mere act of simply touching one another was nearly enough to overrun them both. She had not truly realized it – or maybe become aware of it, as it were – until after they'd kissed. Her passion, the fire that had awakened to singe her soul as their lips moved against each other had taken her by force. She had known then that their little charade could not withstand the force of such feelings; even the act of brushing his hand with her own left her feeling seared.

So she had refrained from actually touching him, because she could not do so without exerting every ounce of self-control she had to keep from melting into him.

In the last twenty-four hours, however, her little to no contact rule had been pretty much abolished. She had learned something new in those hours: that while Richard Castle's touch could incite a burning passion in almost corner of her body, it could also provide solace, reassurance and strength. Now that she had allowed herself to tumble headlong into his embrace, she was aware of something else: he seemed determined to keep her there.

Frightening in its implications was the realization that she did not intend to fight him. She needed his touch, needed the warm strong hand at her back.

Even that realization, however, even all of those thoughts and her understanding of what drove them did not prepare her for what happened next.

The hand of his that had been at the small of her back slid easily around her slim waist and came to rest against her stomach, and then he was literally pulling her backwards and into his chest. She would have gasped in surprise if the surprise itself hadn't been so overwhelming; the act was so primal, so decidedly possessive and unlike the Richard Castle that she worked with every day …

"You won't break," He said darkly, his mouth so near her ear that his lips were nearly brushing the skin, "And if you do, I'll be here to catch the pieces."

Somewhere amidst the pain and fear and grief for her father's situation, somewhere beyond the weary warrior and the frightened daughter, the woman in Kate stirred. Somewhere amidst the grey storm of the nightmare, a fire kindled and sprung to life with a heat and fierceness all its own.

When his hand had left nothing more than a warm spot on the skin of her stomach, Kate fought back a shiver of entirely different origins.

What the hell just happened?