The next time he wakes, he's in an ambulance.
He has a strong feeling of deja-vu, but at least this time it's not Doctor Motorcycle Boy's face that greets him.
"Sophia," he rasps.
"Hey, Rick." She holds out a glass of water for him; Castle drains it, his throat as dry as parchment.
He sits up too fast; his head swims, and he has to catch himself on the edge of the gurney. There's a blanket wrapped around him; it slides down his shoulders, and he realizes his chest is bare underneath.
Sophia secures it back into place with a smile, while a young, red-haired paramedic explains, "We took off most of your clothes; they were drenched and we had to warm you up. But we have some scrubs, if you want."
He's already wearing scrub pants, he sees when he looks down. He can't focus; his brain is refusing to work, is pulled in too many directions for any of it to make sense. Darkness keeps trying to creep in at the edges.
Sophia is talking, saying something about hypothermia and how he has to look after himself. I know that already, he wants to say, but then he'd have to explain and he doesn't really want to.
Seems like the CIA found them in time, anyway. He wonders if Ryan and Esposito will be disappointed that they didn't get to play rescuers this time. Ryan and Esposito-
Kate.
"Where's Kate?" he asks, a sudden and terrible clarity descending upon him.
"She's in the other ambulance," Sophia answers, her tone much too nonchalant if you ask him. "She'll be fine, Rick. Now, about Blakely-"
"I want to see her." He rises to his feet as he says the words, finds his legs to be weak, unsteady things. He staggers, bumps into the medic, then sways into the wall.
Ow. Hurts.
"Rick," Sophia says in a gentle, scolding voice.
He disregards her.
Moving more slowly so as to give his body time to adapt, to deal with the sudden flurry of movement, he makes his way out of the ambulance, step by step, wincing when the cold air hits the bare spots that the blanket isn't covering.
The other ambulance is parked close, thank God, and he doesn't have far to go. There's a CIA agent and a paramedic in the way, but he skirts them, gets inside, heart thumping in his chest in the most ridiculous way. Sophia said she was fine-
Oh. And she is. She is.
Kate.
His heart quiets.
She's lying on a gurney, still unconscious, tucked in a blanket similar to his; her dark hair is a tangle around her pale face, but she's here, she's breathing. She's okay.
Ignoring the medic's glare, he falls to her knees next to her, runs his thumb over the line of her cheekbone.
"You in love with her?"
He didn't realize Sophia had followed him, but it's definitely her voice, this easy blend of mild curiosity and amusement. Like nothing can touch her, nothing deserves her full interest.
He used to find that sexy, back when he was writing his first Derrick Storm novel, but now it only annoys him. Even though he knows it for what it is - defense mechanism.
"Yes," he answers absentmindedly, the truth escaping him as he drinks in the sharp angles of Kate's profile, the faint tinge of pink that has spread back over her cheeks, the dark stroke of her lashes.
Sophia shifts behind him, in surprise maybe, or something else. He doesn't know, doesn't care.
"Does she know?" his old flame asks, and she sounds genuinely interested now, no longer sarcastic. It makes him soften a little.
He palms Kate's cheek, caresses the beauty mark under her left eye.
"I think she does," he answers after a moment.
He's pretty sure, in fact. She never meets his eyes when she says that she doesn't remember.
Sophia makes a little pensive sound.
"And?"
And what? What does she expect?
"It's complicated," he hedges, and even he can hear the unhappiness in his own voice. Damn it, Castle.
He should do a better job of hiding it. This only concerns him and Kate; Sophia has nothing to do with it.
"Complicated? How so?"
He can tell from her voice that she's smiling, and he hates it.
"Either she loves you back, or she doesn't," the CIA agent points out. "Not many possibilities here, Rick."
But there are. She may love him back, and not be ready.
He can't quite face the other alternatives.
And anyway, he doesn't want to be having this conversation with Sophia. Sophia is not his girlfriend, and whatever Kate might say, she never was.
She was fun, yes, a pleasant distraction; she was a wealth of knowledge about the CIA, procedures and secret codes, and all that wrapped in a nice package.
He respects her, even admires her; he was never in love with her.
Kate is none of her business, and so he reluctantly steps away, fingers lingering on his partner's jaw, tries to focus back on the case.
"So. Blakely."
It's ten at night and she should be home, curled in her couch with one of his books. They saved the world again; or if not the world, at least the United States. They saved the world and she should be home.
She shouldn't be standing at his door.
But.
She heard him. Of course she did.
She was swimming back to consciousness, all of her rising to the caress of his hand on her cheek, when the other voice intervened. Sophia, she realizes now, though her brain was only confusion at the time.
She kept her eyes shut, and she listened. And she heard.
It's nothing she hasn't heard before, really, and all things considered, an ambulance gurney after almost drowning probably constitutes an improvement from the green grass of a bright-lit cemetery, with your blood rushing out of your chest.
It's not that she's shocked. It's not that she's surprised.
She knows. She's known. No matter what she's told him.
But hearing his soft-spoken, willing admission - no grand declaration this time, just a simple answer, yes, to a simple question (Are you in love with her?) - does something to her nonetheless, tears her chest wide open, forces her to look.
Take a good look, Kate.
Look at what is there.
And this is why, now that the case is over, now that they've joked and made light of it over drinks at the Old Haunt, she finds herself standing, immobile, at the door of his loft.
It's ten at night and she should be in her tub, drinking wine.
It's ten at night and since the last time she saw him, two hours ago, blue eyes crinkled into a smile as they parted ways in front of his bar, she hasn't been able to think about anything else.
Just him.
Kate breathes, deep and slow, presses her lips together as she looks up at his door.
Just do it.
She raises her hand and knocks.
He's not expecting her exactly, but since he's been daydreaming about her for the last hour or so, he's not surprised to find her here either.
"Beckett."
He opens the door wider, steps aside to let her in.
The soft light of the loft catches in her hair, shines off the tumble of curls. He loves it when she wears her hair down.
Kate steps forwards, then pauses, chewing on her bottom lip as she looks at him.
"You alone?"
He tries to keep the surprise off his face. Tries to keep the hope off his heart.
Don't get carried away.
"Hum, yeah," he answers. "Alexis is out, at a movie with a couple friends, and Mother is-"
He flicks his hand in the air to indicate that he doesn't know, and it's probably better this way. Her mouth curves a little, almost a smile, as she nods.
He turns to close the door, breathless, hating himself for it.
"Do you want me to-"
He was going to say take your coat, but she's already throwing it over the arm of the couch. Her movements are a little jerky, like she's-
Nervous.
It's making him nervous in turn.
"Wine?" he offers, has to clear his throat when his voice comes out a little too high-pitched.
But she doesn't even laugh or say anything; she simply shakes her head, looks at him.
"Castle."
Oh God. Oh God. He doesn't know why she's here, but he doesn't like that solemn look on her face, the firm line of her mouth, the resolution in it. Maybe he shouldn't have let her in after all. The case was intense, and his feelings are too raw. Too close to the surface.
He's not sure he can deal with Kate and their conversations tonight, the layers of meaning riddled in them. Not sure he can pretend he doesn't care.
He cares too much.
She seems to understand his reluctance, sighs and tilts her head, studying him.
"You were right," she says after a second, her smooth voice breaking the silence that coats the loft
He was right.
About what?
"I'm - very pleased to hear that," he answers carefully, and there's definitely a glint of amusement in her eyes when he says it. "But, uh. It would be even better if I knew what was I right about?"
She presses her lips together but keeps looking at him, doesn't shy away. Such determination in her green eyes, and some uncertainty too - it only makes her more beautiful. More human.
"What you told Sophia. That you thought...you thought I knew."
That he thought she knew-
Oh. Oh.
"You were awake," he says, not really a question, more like a way of skirting the real issue, the meaning behind her words. He's stunned with it, speechless.
She knows.
"Yes," she answers simply. No flourishes around it, no apology; none is needed.
What did he tell Sophia again? Oh. That he thought she knew; that it was complicated. Okay, good. Good. He can work with that.
"So." He hesitates. "You knew...before my conversation with Sophia." He suspected as much, really, has suspected as much for a long time, but he would still like to hear her say it.
"Yes," she says, a single breath charged with such relief. Her eyes darken, though, something like regret pooling in them. "I'm sorry, Castle."
Ah.
It doesn't come as a surprise, but it still hurts a little. More than a little?
He's not sure what to do now.
As if she senses that, she takes the lead, offers him more. "I was...angry with you, Castle."
Angry. "You had good reason to," he makes himself say, remembering the fight at her apartment, her heartbreaking cries, half-hearted struggle as he carried her out of that hangar.
"Not-" she looks away with a soft, frustrated sound, worries her lip. "Not about the case," she says after a moment. "I know why you did what you did."
Well at least there's that. They never talk about Montgomery, and sometimes - he wonders.
"I was angry with you," she starts again, painfully slow in choosing her words, "because you sprung that on me at the worst possible time."
That being his feelings, uh? His love. He thinks maybe it deserves a little better than a vague demonstrative, but he's not going to argue over language matters.
"You were dying a little bit," he objects, trying to be light even though his chest squeezes and twists at the very thought. "Timing might not have been my, uh, first concern."
She arches an eyebrow at him. "I noticed, Castle. And that's kind of my point. I *was* dying. And utterly unprepared to face an impromptu love confession."
He wants to ask if she's better prepared now, but it's probably not the best idea.
"So. I was mad at you for making me face it anyway, and I didn't want to deal with it. That's why I ignored it, pretended I didn't remember."
Yeah, he figured as much.
Listen to what she isn't saying.
"But... not anymore?" he inquires tentatively.
Kate lets out a long breath, stares into his eyes.
"No."
He should dance with joy at that, should go to her and crush her in his arms, hold her to his chest and never let go; and yet all he wants is to understand.
"Why?"
She smiles, something bittersweet that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Sophia wasn't wrong," she admits, and he can see how much it costs her to say the words.
Except he has no idea what she means. Seems to be a recurring situation tonight.
She must read his confusion on his face, and she explains, albeit uncomfortably. "It's not...that complicated. And you deserve an answer, Castle."
Oh. Wait. What?
No.
No. No no no. He takes a step back in panic, averts his eyes. He doesn't need an answer. Nope. He can wait. He'll wait. He doesn't need - he can't take it if she says-
Her fingers splay on his cheeks, palms kissing the sides of his jaw, cool and soft, appeasing. He remembers to breathe, meets her eyes unwillingly. They're green, wide pools, liquid certainty staring at him.
"Do you trust me so little?" she murmurs.
He opens his mouth to answer - answer what, he has no idea - but before he can get any words out her tongue is sliding in, a gentle intrusion, elusive and light. Taunting. He kisses her back, tries to savor it, to get past the shock of her cold lips against his, the curl of her mouth, the smile she doesn't try to hide.
It's dazzling and dizzying, and it ends too soon.
Yet she lingers, presses her forehead to his cheek, kisses his jaw, the side of his neck.
If it's a dream, he never wants to wake up.
"I love you too, Castle," she whispers in between kisses, and it's not even the words that undo him, melt his heart in his chest - it's the way her voice catches in her throat, raspy with emotion, dark and rich. Beautiful.
Kate.
"I love you, I love you," he hears, and he can no longer tell which one of them is speaking the words.
Not that it matters.