At least they got the guy. That's all that can soothe Castle's churning guts as he sits beside Kate's desk and watches her fill out paperwork. It wasn't the Reverend after all (despite the flimsy alibi), but the rat-catching maintenance man. He's been called by the Lord to rid the sacred marriage of Vices, apparently.

Whatever that means. Crazy talk is what it is.

Honestly, Castle can't recall the details too well; he's spent the day trying to figure out how to undo the damage between them. The look on her face still haunts him: serious, struck, and ashamed.

Ashamed.

He hates that. He doesn't want her to ever think-

He wants her to know how amazing she is, how amazing *this* is, and can be, if she'll let it be. He loves her; he loves her and sometimes it just washes over him like a tidal wave, dragging him out to sea.

He can't help kissing her. He wants to kiss her now, even now, while she has that too serious look on her face, while her fingers fly over the keyboard, while the two parallel lines set up a permanent home between her eyebrows, just over the elegant line of her nose.

Castle glances at his hands, wonders if he should slink off while she's busy, let her have some time without him staring lustfully.

But no. Because he has a plan. A siege. This is just the first strike, his first attack from the crouching defense of his foxhole. Dig in.

"We gonna hit up my place?" he asks suddenly. Time for an incursion into her claimed territory. No more of this No-Man's Land.

Kate swings her head up to look at him, tightness in the corners of her eyes. "The bar? Yeah. Sounds good."

He thinks it's only her surprise that makes her answer positively. But he'll take it.

He wants back in. He wants back inside Kate so badly-

Well. Don't rush it. Patience.

So he walks her to the Old Haunt with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, trying to be careful, trying to be good, and listens to the crisp sound of fall under his feet. Not so much leaves, but a quality of coldness lent to the sidewalk, to the trash scuttling ahead of the wind, to the grit that grinds under his shoes.

When they get inside, the bar is dim, and the boys are nowhere to be found. Castle leads her to their table, stands as she sits on one side, then shrugs out of his jacket and lets it drop to the other seat.

"I'll get us some beer?"

She nods.

When he gets back with a pitcher and glasses, she lifts her eyebrows at him but pours them each a drink. She takes small sips and he follows suit; he wants to be sober for this night. Needs to be sober, if he doesn't want to do something stupid.

After a moment, Castle realizes that Kate has propped her feet up on his bench as she leans back in the booth, her glass cradled to her chest. He drops a hand on her feet and rubs his thumb over the exposed skin along the top of her foot, drawing up to her shin.

She focuses her gaze on him slowly, watching him without saying a word, as if she's pulling her consciousness back from some great distance.

Yesterday, he would've cracked a joke. Today he doesn't know what to say to make things right. He has kissed her twice since she told him, that day on the swings, that she wasn't ready. He's trying to prove her wrong. She *is* wrong.

So she's got a wall around her heart. He can handle it. He's got this.

After a minute of sipping her beer, Kate puts the glass back on the table and crosses her arms over her chest. "What if I'm wrong?"

"What?" He hadn't expected to encounter enemy movement quite so soon.

"If I'm wrong, and it's not really a wall. But a hole. Like you said."

Easy. "Told you. We'll fill it in." That's what she said circles around in his brain, but he doesn't want to ruin this moment. She seems intent. A joke might ruin the balance.

A deep breath from her. If she had a beer bottle, he thinks she'd be picking the label off. "What if it's a black hole?"

He pauses to consider that one. Is this a feint? Or is this where she's concentrated the majority of her defenses?

Thinking in military jargon is making his head spin. "Is it a black hole?" he asks.

"I don't know. Nothing. . .nothing seems to be able to survive it," she says softly, and drops her eyes to the glass on the table.

I'll survive.

He wishes he had more of her to touch than just her feet, crossed at the ankles beside him. If he could touch her, she'd surrender this time too. Just like before. Sure-fire way to get to her is through a kiss. "It doesn't *feel* like a black hole, Kate."

She lifts her eyes; the need for answers, the need for anything fills their dark depths.

But he doesn't have anything else to give her. "Gut feeling," he says. Because he can't say, again, I love you. Not when she clearly doesn't want to hear it. Saying those words causes three months of retreat. So long as he can engage her, here, outside the walls, then he has a chance.

Her shoulders lift and fall, maybe on a sigh or a held back sob; it's been hard to tell with her lately, which emotion is which. He wonders if she spent those three months trying to master an iron control over her face.

It's not working. The shame is back. Shame and regret. And denial. The denial is the worst one to see.

Castle closes his eyes against it, shell-shocked. Dizzy. Ears ringing. He hates that look.

And every day he does this, every day he walks beside her and listens to her and bounces theories off her and jokes with her, every day he picks up this life back where it left off last summer is another day in this foxhole, digging in deeper, and damn, he is tired. He is tired of digging. Tired of chipping at the brick wall with nothing but his bare fingernails.

He's a bloodied mess, inside, and he wants to sneak off to his own defenses and lay down, recover for a little while.

*Will* he survive?

For the first time since this summer, Richard Castle isn't so sure he can survive loving her.

Despite his doubts, despite the deep weariness that slumps his shoulders and the meaningful silence that settled between them back at the Old Haunt's booth, Castle still decides to walk her home.

It would be different if she called a cab, if he could see her off, knowing she'll be safe.

But when Beckett shakes her head, her dark locks of hair shimmering, and declares that she wants to walk, wants to enjoy the cool night air, it's not even a question of whether or not he's going.

His feet simply follow hers, helplessly bound to her side, his stride set to accommodate hers.

It's New York City, of course, so the sky is not starry like it would be in say, Kansas, but they can still catch a glimpse or two of far-away planets. Castle finds himself wondering if there's life out there, people going through this same, complicated business of love, people with life and problems and children of their own.

He's always wanted to believe, he's always been that enthusiastic guy who loves sci-fi and aliens and Asimov, but he's not so sure now. Not so sure he would wish anyone to go through what he's going through.

What if he can't convince Kate?

An icy feeling cracks open in his chest, weaves a web around his heart, cold and tight. If he can't convince her that he's worth it, that they're worth it – if he can't persuade Kate, the only woman who's ever really mattered?

What's his life worth then?

Despair opens its large, dark mouth inside him, looking to swallow him whole, to crush him between its powerful jaws.

And his daughter is going to Stanford in January. Yeah. His misery's complete. Castle hangs his head, tries to focus on his shoes, their soft thump on the sidewalk, the way the moonlight shines off the leather.

He needs something from Kate that she's not willing to give, some assurance, a factual promise. Not words, no. He won't take Kate's words at face value anymore. Words have lost some of their charm, some of the power they've always held for him.

What good are words, if she can wake up someday and have forgotten all about his?

He knows what she was saying, that day at the swings, but it's not enough. His heart has grown doubtful, guarded; his heart demands evidence and a solid case before it can trust her again.

As if on cue, a light hand nudges at his, soft, pliant fingers sliding across his palm, and Rick's head jerks up, disbelieving. Kate is not looking at him, of course; she's staring straight ahead, the elegant lines of her profile standing out against the night's obscurity.

But it *is* her hand in his, firmly holding on, the tip of her warm thumb ghosting his knuckles.

He's lost.

What does this mean? Does she want him now? Can she just change her mind, flip sides so easily? Is he supposed to wait on her, let her try him on to see if he fits, like Cinderella with her glass slipper?

Anger flares inside him, a hot, righteous anger, springing from the exhaustion that nests in his chest. He wants to take back his hand; he's about to –

And then, just as suddenly, his anger's gone. Her fingers feel good, curled under his; they feel good and he's weak, he's desperate, he's in love.

It strikes him in this moment, the needy quality of his love, the physical, throbbing ache for her. It wasn't like that before; sure, he was attracted to Beckett when he started riding along with the NYPD, but he could live without her then, could look at other women with some interest still.

He's not that man anymore. Oh, the childish petulance is still there, but the rest of the shallow playboy is gone, dead. Buried. Even last year, when she was with Josh, he gave her space, he didn't push – there wasn't this beat of whiny need inside his chest, or this tingling, burning desire in his fingertips.

Or if there was, it was dormant. Now it's awakened, it's powerful, and it pulses through his body, imperious, demanding.

He wants to blame it on their kiss in the Reverend's office; but he can't fool himself. It has more to do with that picture he has tried so hard to forget, the picture of Kate's pale face against the bright, green grass, the thin thread of her life coming apart in his helpless hands.

Castle was nonchalant before. He thought he had all the time in the world; he thought he could wait on Kate, let this slow seduction go on until she surrendered. Now he feels trapped in his own life, timed; he feels that every second he doesn't spend with her is a wasted one.

Kate's fingers tighten on his: he wonders if she feels the same.

Belatedly, he realizes that they've reached her building; Beckett is looking at him, her eyes dark and unfathomable, bewitching abysses.

This is just the saddest part of it all: the fact that she wants him back.

She's turned the key in the lock already, and she's leaning against the door to keep it open. Her hand seems in no hurry to leave his.

She watches him a moment longer, and Castle lets her, because he has no idea what's going on. His haunting, deeply rooted longing for her is still warring with his wariness and lingering remnants of irritation.

"Not a black hole?" She asks at last, her voice so low that he has to strain towards it in order to make out the words.

Oh. Oh.

Really?

He shakes his head, wordless but resolute. No, it can't be a black hole: this thing between them doesn't absorb heat. It generates it.

Heat. Need. Love. And the myriad other emotions that are raging in his chest.

But he doesn't say this. Kate's lips twitch; the street lamps throw gentle shadows on her face, making her soft expression into a smile.

She draws closer; every inch she takes towards him increases his difficulty to breathe. Her mouth presses to his ear, his cheek, his jaw. Castle holds his breath, expecting to wake any minute now.

"Wanna come up?" She suggests, the words raw and raspy like she's forcefully pulled them out of her throat.

And, like the idiot he is, he nods yes. His brain is chanting This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong but he doesn't care, doesn't even have a parcel of his attention to give to the alarmed call - subjugated, mesmerized as he is by Kate Beckett, the dark brilliance of her eyes, the sharp, exotic lines of her cheekbones.

She tugs on his hand and he follows her inside, into the elevator, out of it.

They don't speak.

Words would ruin it, would break this suspended, fragile moment – words would give this meaning and reality, turn it into something that Kate has expressly said she isn't ready for.

What are they doing, then?

Castle is vaguely aware that he should man up, be the responsible one. Push her away. Beckett is clearly not herself; he has no idea what is prompting her, but there's one thing he knows for sure. Kate never changes her mind this quickly. She needs time to think, time to process, and –

Oh, god. Are those her hands, sliding under his shirt, splaying on his ribs? They're cool, fresh like spring water; he shivers hard, parts his lips to suck in a ragged breath.

But instead of oxygen he gets Kate's rich, demanding mouth, her swirling tongue that leaves him dizzy, drunk with taste and sensation. She's a ferocious enemy, a soldier who never lets up, who pushes him, corners him, until he's pressed to the wall and has no other option but pushing back, claiming her, hands and tongue and lips marking her as his.

By the time they stumble into her bedroom, he's managed to get her undressed. Her pale skin glistens in the dark, and he can't get enough, can't get enough of her, the way she feels against him, her breathy moans, her searching hands, her ragged exhalations hot against his neck.

He can't say that he loves her? He'll have to show her instead.

And when Kate arches under him, a hand clawing at his shoulder and the other a tight fist on the cotton sheets, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in soundless pleasure, he stares hard, intent on burning the sight into his mind. This memory as a talisman, a lighthouse to come back to in darker times: Kate Beckett offered, bare, coming apart in his arms.

It's a costly effort to hold back those words scratching his throat, those words that want out. (Again.)

I love you.

When he wakes up, of course, she's gone.

Rick lets his eyelids slide shut again, a pathetic protection against the harsh, unforgiving morning light, against the misery that starts to throb in his chest.

He forces himself to breathe in and out, slow and measured.

He expected this. He should have known better last night, known better than to come up to her apartment, take her unvoiced offer. The sensation of her skin against his, smooth and warm, welcoming, comes back to him clear and sharp.

But, no, he doesn't regret this.

It's too late for regrets anyway. He wishes… He wishes he had a way to know what Kate is thinking, how she feels about this. She abandoned herself so completely; he cannot believe that this is a one-time thing for her.

Did she see right through him? Did she guess what place he was in last night, feel his need for reassurance? Did she deliberately give him the cool, healing balm of last night to apply against the throbbing memory of her three-month silence, to protect his heart from whatever ache might be coming its way?

This was a mistake. He doesn't regret it, but it was a mistake to take what she offered.

He groans into the silence and lifts up, opens his eyes. He'd like to imagine she hesitated at the doorway, watched him sleep, debated it. He'd like to think she had a hard time leaving her bed this morning.

But he knows she probably left quickly, eyes averted.

Rick sits on the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands. He keeps his eyes closed, concentrates on breathing in and out. Slowly. He's gonna have to figure out a way to breathe around her, breathe without feeling the ragged edge of grief.

He doesn't regret it.

With his eyes closed, he sees her wide, surprised eyes as she lay shattered beneath him. And somehow, he no longer sees the green grass, the too-blue sky, no longer sees the black edge of her police uniform, the dark red of her blood. Instead, he sees her pale blue sheets, the riot of her hair across the pillow, their joined hands over her head, the gasp of his name on her lips, the flutter of her eyelashes.

He shivers and sits up, heart pounding. Some of that neediness has sunk back beneath the surface, buried under the crashing wave of last night. Rick gets to his feet.

Her apartment is touched by morning light, forward and brazen light; it looks like her. The whole place, a little severe but safe, contained, in control. Still, he remembers last night, he remembers touching the skin along her ribs and the way she arched, breathless.

Rick heads for the bathroom, flips on the shower, adjusts the temperature. He doesn't regret last night. This can still work. He's going to shower in her bathroom. He's going to hang his towels up next to hers. He's going to use one of her bowls and have some of her cereal. He's going to eat it dry, most likely, and put up a post-it note on her fridge reminding her to get milk.

He's going to punish her a little, by leaving reminders of last night all over her safe, contained apartment. He knows that's what it is, has no compunction about it either. Punish her for doing this to him.

He's going to check her pantry for ingredients and make her some kind of casserole, put it in the fridge, clean out all the styrofoam, leave her instructions on how to heat it up.

He's going to dig the spare key out of the junk drawer in her kitchen, let himself out, and lock it up behind him. He's going to head straight for the 12th after that, and sit down in his chair beside her desk wearing yesterday's clothes.

And he's going to stay there as long as she does, as long as it takes.

Until she notices him. Until she stops running and looks at him.

Until she lets him have her again.

It's ten in the morning when Kate heads back to her desk and finds him there, sitting in his usual seat, sipping coffee, her takeout cup nestled next to her keyboard. She's walking up from Holding so she sees the back of his head, the collar of his wrinkled blue dress shirt, before he sees her.

Her mouth runs dry. The coffee is from the little place next to her apartment building. The shirt is the one he was wearing last night (which you yanked off his shoulders).

She doesn't do anything quite so obvious as stopping dead in her tracks, but her heart stutters even as Kate keeps walking forward. She's got the file on the maintenance man in her hands, freshly processed, and she's got catch-up work to do on a five-week old homicide they never closed, but suddenly her focus has split down the middle, fallen apart.

It was a mistake. It was weakness, and loneliness, and fear clamoring for her attention last night. And his body, the heat of his mouth sucking on her skin-

She sits at her desk and takes a first, too-hot mouthful of her coffee, eyes slipping shut. She found a dark, red mark on her shoulder this morning. From him. Marked. It is all she can do not to let him see her hands shake.

"Mm, thanks," she murmurs, hoping it's gratitude for the coffee (knowing it's not).

When her eyes open, she sees it on his face. Last night. But he nods to the case file in her hand.

"Back to the sanitation worker's murder?"

She swallows her mouthful and nods back. "Vice sent a report in. And the ME came back with a possible weapon-"

"Baseball bat?" he says, lifting his eyebrows.

She shakes her head, feels that flicker of affection and irritation spark in her. "No. Stop with the 'Warriors' theory. It's not the Baseball Furies."

"Yes, but there were those fibers-"

"Not from a pinstripe jersey. Not everything is a movie, Castle."

And even though she doesn't mean them to, her words say things she doesn't realize she's been thinking.

He sighs, too loudly, and leans back in his seat. "But if it were, it would be so awesome. Baseball Furies roaming the streets of New York. Secret gang meetings in Central Park. Trying to get home to Coney Island-"

"Castle. Sanitation worker. Focus." She snaps her fingers in front of his face and he startles, shoots her a grin. His usual grin.

Only now, she's seen that grin in other places, other times, with entirely different meanings. She's seen that grin when she's cried out his name, and he's lifted his head, pleased and predatory. And even though her body flushes to see it, she's at work. She's at work, and that was a mistake she should never, ever be weak enough to let happen again.

Just like that, she's back to Detective Beckett. The sanitation worker's family deserves answers, some kind of peace, and she will channel all of her own restlessness and drive into solving this quickly-growing-cold case.

"Let's look at the timeline again," she says, and stands to flip the board over.

Just like that. Back to Detective Beckett.