and one thing that happened to Kate Beckett...

MIDNIGHT AT THE OASIS

It's way past midnight when Richard Castle stops for breath, or at least for a good long stretch. His long-patented response to a world he doesn't always understand is simple: write it out.In twelve-point Arial on a clear white screen, sometimes things make sense.

He looks over the evening's work. What started as notes for a novel about Nikki Heat hunting a killer who's hunting her has turned into something quite different. Rescue and escape the way he wishes it had gone, though there's not one thing about the naked part he wanted to change, except not getting a good enough look. He did have to find a more plausible way for Nikki to escape a bomb than jumping in her tub - clearly it works, but it's such an unbelievable cliché.

But the rest...well, he doubts those other scenes will ever find their way into print. Some things a writer writes just for himself.

He hears noise in the kitchen and closes the laptop, tiptoes to the door of his study to see who's there. It's Beckett, looking lost in the wine-coloured t-shirt he's loaned her for nightwear. She's quietly rooting through the cabinets, like a child searching for hidden chocolate.

'Looking for something?' he asks, joining her in the room. He's spoken quietly, so as not to startle her, but she jumps anyway.

'I'm not snooping. I was just looking for-'

'Another cocoa? Or something stronger?'

A look crosses her face, eagerness quickly replaced with guilt. It might indeed have been the cocoa she was after, but clearly she'd welcome a good belt of something else. He can see the dark circles around her eyes from where he stands ten feet away, and though she went upstairs hours ago, it doesn't look like she's slept. He hopes she's finally let herself cry, even just a little. God knows if he'd just lost everything in this loft - his baby pictures of Alexis, his manuscripts, his gifts from famous fans - he'd be completely freaking out. Beckett's got more control than he does, but everybody's got their limits.

'I was just about to have my thousand-word nightcap,' he says. 'I'm sure there's enough for two.'

He's a little surprised when she doesn't object, just leans against the counter with her arms folded protectively over her chest. 'You make yourself a drink every time you manage to write three pages?' she asks, as he's filling the kettle. 'No wonder the Nikki Heat books are so thin.'

'Well, if my inspiration would ever sit down to eat a full meal in my presence...' He feels a sharp flick on the back of his head. 'And ow.'

'You saw me eat a cheeseburger, a milkshake, and half your fries that night at Remy's. Don't think that just because it happens offscreen, it doesn't happen.'

He puts the kettle on the stove and sets the burner on high. 'Oh, believe me, Detective Beckett. I have nights where I think about nothing else but what happens offscreen.'

He slides out of reach before she can flick him again and fishes a bottle of brandy out of an overhead cabinet. Not the best stuff, that's locked away in his study, but the decent enough VSOP he gets by the carload around Christmastime from fans. Most of that gets regifted - the staff in his publisher's office, the security guards in his building, the mailman and the super and whoever else he comes across in December that seems likely to drink it - but he always keeps a few bottles himself. For medicinal purposes, of course.

The first bottle of the year is gone, and the second is already half empty. Castle sighs. Alexis may miss her grandmother, but his liquor cabinet will not. He sets the bottle on the counter and starts amassing the other ingredients: lemon, honey, cardamom, vanilla, and the biggest mugs he can find.

'What are you making?' Beckett asks, in a tone that suggests she's annoyed with herself for being interested.

'Nectar of the gods. After this, you will sleep like a baby.'

'My mom always said I woke her up every hour on the hour for the first year and a half.'

He hears a faint smile in her voice and looks up in time to catch it before it fades away. One of these days he's going to make her smile for real, that huge sunshine-lollipops-and-rainbows grin he's only ever seen in the family photographs on her bookshelves.

All of which are gone now, burnt to a crisp.

It's a sobering thought. He looks around his home, but he still can't quite imagine what she must be feeling right now. His mind just simply doesn't want to go there.

Nor does hers, by the expression on her face when he looks at her again. 'Martha,' he says quickly, setting out the mugs and pouring a very happy dose of brandy in each. 'Not much for teaching me how to cook, but I could do every drink in the bartender's guide by the time I was fourteen years old.'

'So where did you learn to make pancakes?'

'There are these things called books. In which one can find all kinds of information, as well as really hot detectives.'

'I see. Trial and error.'

He tops up the mugs with the hot water, adds a tablespoon of honey, a cardamom pod, and a dash of lemon and vanilla to each. 'Kyra,' he finally admits, turning around to hand Beckett her drink. 'Kyra taught me. Kyra civilized me.'

'I'll have to send a card to thank her.'

The words echo through the open space of the loft and come back to them meaning something quite different. Their eyes catch and hold, neither able to break free. It's happened before, each time for just a little bit longer than the last. One of these days they're going to get stuck like that, forgetting to eat or sleep, until somebody finds them dead and still upright, still staring at each other, still frozen in indecision.

'Ask her if she's got my Rolling Stones Hot Rocks album,' Castle finally manages to say. 'It's been missing since 1995.'

Beckett flashes a tight smile and sips her drink, closing her eyes as the hot brandy slides down her throat. He can see her shoulders visibly relax, the strain etched into her face beginning to smooth out. Beckett's face should not look the way it's looked the last few days. It should be preserved as a work of natural art, the hard edge of cheek and jaw offset by the gentle depth of her eyes, the soft curve of her mouth. There's no angle at which he doesn't find her something between lovely and heartstopping. He wonders what she'll look like when she's old, and if he'll still be around to find out.

He wonders, too, what would have happened if they really had lost her last night, if he would ever have dared to write another word. Or maybe he'd have written nothing but Nikki Heat until the day he died, giving Beckett all the life she wouldn't have had.

'Kate...'

She opens her eyes, but before he can say anything else, she shakes her head. 'I'm all right.'

'I know, but-'

'It's just stuff. It can be replaced.'

There's so much she's lost that can't, but he doesn't push the point, doesn't try to stop her when she thanks him for the toddy and tells him it'll probably work best if she drinks it in bed. He sips his own drink and watches her go, promising himself that one day, soon, they will talk about this, damn it. And maybe then he'll know what needs to happen next.

Meanwhile, tonight, Jameson Rook is about to get lucky again.

As always, kudos to the Deep Fried Twinkies (now residing at the newly christened Hotel Beta!) for making this story far better than it was. It's been a fun six days, my thanks to everyone who came along.

Remember, reviews are like chocolate: not necessary for life, but still awfully yummy when you get some :)