Since chapter 2 was brief, chapter 3 is longer. Enjoy.

Previously: In which Castle appeared. It was awkward. Kate succumbed to the charms of morphine.

(This is prolly obvious, but the big chunk in italics is a flashback.)

Chapter 3

When she woke up, with no idea how long she'd been out, she looked around to find herself in the midst of a small jungle of tiger lilies, tulips, pansies, orchids, iris and daffodils, and Richard Castle sprawled awkwardly in the chair beside her bed, snoring gently.

It wasn't exactly that the letter had caught her completely off-guard. He was a writer; he wrote. It was his natural method of communication. But its language was the shocking part. He was a skilled writer. His literary language was slick, easy, and lithe. She knew his style well; his literary success was due to the easy read, not the sex scenes. Well, not just the sex scenes.

This letter was different. It was simple. It didn't race forward. It wasn't a fast-paced narrative, with nimble verbs and action-based participial adjectives to keep the prose moving. It was a single moment. It was a huge burst of pure, raw, unadulterated, heartfelt emotion, crystallized in words. It was his way of blurting everything out. It was over the top in its sincerity. It was passion for no other purpose than sheer heartfelt love.

It was vulnerable, the way he was never vulnerable.

He shifted a little in his sleep – he looked exhausted – and let out a snort.

He was in love with her. To be honest, Kate wasn't as shocked as she should have been. She'd always known he had a thing for her. He'd never really been subtle about it, after all. How many times had he commented on her appearance, or simply done an unconscious round of elevator eyes?

But the letter, again, changed everything. It was no hinting of an adolescent crush, some mere appreciation of her body and enjoyment of her aptitude for matching him, parry for thrust, in bouts of stychomythia that would have left Benedick and Beatrice reeling. The letter was pure, raw, uncut. Undiluted. Simple.

Loving.

He let out another snuffling snort, and his eyes blinked open. Meeting her gaze, he smiled a little tentatively, running a hand through his hair, succeeding only in making it look exactly the same. "Hey. Sorry. Dozed off."

"That's fine." She glanced at the small shrine of flowers beside her. "I didn't realize I had my own greenhouse here. Where did these come from?"

"The daffodils and tulips are from your friends among the thin blue line. I got you these," he pointed to the iris-orchid-Queen-Anne's-Lace combination. "Mother figured I would forget, so she sent the tiger lilies. And Alexis didn't trust either of us, so the pansies are from her."

"They're all beautiful." She ran a gentle finger over the silky, pale pink orchid petals. Kate loved flowers; she just didn't have them around the house often. Flowers rarely meant happy occasions for police officers. And she was rarely home often enough, let alone did she remember, to water them properly.

But for just a second, she lingered on the orchid petals. The others were lovely – and who but Martha would send tiger lilies to a hospital patient? – but Castle's flowers were breathtaking. Tall, slender purple irises, delicate, pale pink orchids, and soft white clouds of Queen Anne's Lace. Perfect. Beautiful.

She looked up to see softness in his eyes. "They're so beautiful, Castle. Thank you."

"I'm glad you like them."

He sat back in the chair, thinking for a moment before he spoke again. "I do want to explain about the letter."

"I'm so sorry – I saw my initials on it, and I didn't stop to think – "

"It's not your fault," he assured her. "You had no reason to think otherwise. Please don't guilt yourself about it. This is all the work of my loving but meddlesome mother."

"Well, at least you know it was either completely innocent or completely well-meaning."

"True."

"It wasn't bad, or unpleasant. It was just kind of – unexpected."

"I was – kind of writing without thinking." He twisted his hands uncomfortably. "I didn't mean for anyone to see it. Least of all you. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She took pity on him. He looked mortified. At least she wasn't alone in her embarrassment. "For what it's worth, it's beautifully written."

"I only use the good words for you," he said, giving her a sheepish smile.

They fell silent for a while, each lost in thought. Finally, he broke the silence.

"It really was the worst day." Seeing her look up, he continued. "When you were shot. I really meant that."

She was too fast. He ran at breakneck speed, but she was still far and away ahead of him. "Beckett! Wait! We're coming!" he gasped. How did she run so fast in heels? Even Esposito was struggling to catch up.

They raced behind her down the alley to the empty building the murderer had run into. She vanished inside, gun in hand. For a second, everything was silent.

Then he heard the bang.

He'd heard gunshots before but this one sent a chill down his spine. Esposito got to the door before him and he heard yelling – two male voices – and then "Castle! Call a bus!"

His heart raced as he got to the door of the building. Inside, Esposito was cuffing the guy. And Beckett was on the floor, motionless, in a pool of blood. It soaked her clothes and hair, smeared her face, and surrounded her chest with a deep crimson halo.

Blood didn't splatter, didn't spurt. It just appeared. It welled up like some great fountain, like the gaping dark hole in her chest was brimming, and he needed to stop it but there was no off switch. Pressing his hands against it, he helplessly watched red flowing smoothly into the spaces between his fingers. Blood coated his hands, hot and slick, and he couldn't breathe, and his hands hurt because they were shaking but he was pressing them so hard against that hole in her chest that was just leaking so much and his hands were slipping and any other time she'd have slapped him for trying to feel her up but now she wasn't moving. It wasn't poetic. No eyelashes fluttering, no delicate hand squeezing his, no long shaky gasps. She just wasn't moving. Her eyes were closed.

He tried to find a pulse, but his hands were shaking so hard he couldn't feel anything. Leaning over, he pressed his ear to his mouth. The faintest puff of air came out. He almost collapsed in relief. She was alive. Barely. But alive.

"I just – when I ran through that door and saw you on the floor, my heart stopped."

Kate looked down. She'd known the anguish of seeing another cop shot. Too many good officers did. It was sobering, something every member of the NYPD knew might happen but hoped wouldn't.

"I thought I might let Nikki get shot next book, you know? Give Rook a scare, help him realize the depth of his feelings. Keep the readers worried." He shook his head. "I didn't realize what it's really like."

"It's not glamorous."

"Yeah. I don't think I want to do it anymore." Castle stopped, his expression full of pain, and Kate realized suddenly what the rest of the sentence was. I don't want to relive it. He looked despondent.

"Castle, I'm going to be fine."

He let out a long breath. "I know that. I just – you – you're a rock to me. You're immovable. And then seeing you like that, on the floor, and in the ambulance – it shook me. It still terrifies me."

"Can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

"I came to one of your book signings." He blinked in disbelief. "Years ago. I did. I found out about it, and I stood in line for an hour before I could even see you. I had this whole big speech planned, about how your books had gotten me through my mom's death and you'd helped me realize that I wanted to be a cop. Then I got to the table, and you smiled at me, and I just –" she shook her head – "I didn't need to say anything. You smiled at me like you knew everything I wanted to say. And when you gave me back the book, you touched my hand. And you said 'thank you, Kate.' And – I just – I walked out of the bookstore like I was in the air. I felt happier that day than I'd felt since Mom's death."

"Wait – your hair was a lot longer then, right? And you were wearing something blue?" His eyes went wide. "I remember you."

"You're not serious."

"I am. I remember you." He sat up straighter, his eyes bright. "You walked up, this pretty girl in the middle of all the half-crazed people, and you looked so shy. But then you smiled, and I remember thinking you had the most beautiful smile. I asked my handlers afterward, but no one knew who you were."

"Really?"

He nodded. "I looked for you every time I did a book signing in New York after that. But I never saw you again. And then by the time we started working together, you looked different enough that I didn't recognize you."

Kate smiled softly. "You have to understand, that was one of the things that helped me come back to the world after Mom died. In a way, you brought me back to life. I always wished I could get a chance to thank you for that."

"And you never did?"

"Well, then I met you."

That got a laugh. His face broadened into a grin. "You've recovered enough to snark at me. I declare you officially on the mend."

Author's Note: Merry Christmas/Mele Kalikimaka/Crăniun fericit/Fröliche Weinachten! Big shoutout to you wonderful readers outside the US too. It's so cool to check story stats and see all these people from these amazing far-off places. Thanks you so much for reading! Please drop a line in your native tongue if you have the chance; I studied linguistics my last year at undergrad and would love to try reading your language (with the help of trusty online dictionaries, of course).

Flower language (which I looked up) – orchids are 'delicate beauty,' Queen Anne's Lace is 'femininity,' and irises are 'inspiration,' which I thought abundantly fitting for the muse herself.

Big internet hugs to you. Stay warm.