A/N: At long last, a new chapter! I know it took me forever, but in my defense, it's quite long. It's not technically part of this chapter, but because it's been so long I'll copy in the last bit that Kate wrote at the beginning of this one because it opens with them talking about it, so this way if you want a refresher, you don't have to go back to the last chapter. Enjoy!

Every Sunday when I was growing up began the same way. I woke up to the scents of coffee, bacon, eggs, and a hot griddle, and I rolled out of bed and met my parents in the kitchen, where my dad would be sitting at the table with a newspaper and my mom would be standing by the stove making breakfast. "Morning, Katie," she'd say. She'd ask me what I wanted for breakfast, and I'd sit down with my dad and we'd all talk a little while she cooked, and then we'd eat.

My whole childhood wasn't this cliché. It was only Sunday mornings. Most other mornings my mom was either gone before I was up or still asleep after working late the night before, and my dad and I would grab a Pop-Tart or a bowl of cereal before heading off to school and work. During the week we were all busy, and we tended to go in three separate directions most of the time. But on Sunday mornings, for a couple hours, mine was pretty close to a stereotypical 1950s sitcom family. And I always liked that.

Chapter 6

Digging

He'd finished reading. Actually, he'd been finished reading for a few minutes now. The last piece she'd written was actually quite short. He knew he couldn't sit there on her couch pretending to still be reading it for much longer, but if he let her know he was done he'd have to give her his feedback, and she wasn't going to take it well.

But apparently he hesitated a moment too long, because she figured out that he was stalling. "Okay," she said, "why do you hate it?" Her tone was teasing, but her eyes weren't. In her eyes was exactly the emotion he'd been hoping to avoid. Just the slightest tinge of hurt.

"I don't hate it," he said quickly.

"Well, I know it didn't take you this long to read it, which means you're stalling, probably because you don't want to tell me something. What is it? I thought this one was okay."

"It is okay. It's fine." Why couldn't he just tell her? Maybe because she seemed to finally be getting comfortable with the idea of writing and he was about to knock her down a peg or two. He couldn't do it. He didn't want to do it. But he had to do it. He was supposed to be helping her, not coddling her. Kate Beckett had no patience for being coddled. It was a surefire way to lose her. He couldn't let that happen. And anyway, she could tell something was wrong.

"Fine?" She rolled her eyes. "Just tell me, Castle. I can take it."

"I know." He nodded. "I know you can. But it isn't bad, it's just… it feels rushed."

She frowned. "Rushed?"

"Like, maybe you were just trying to write it to write it. To get it done. Trust me, I know the feeling, but that's not how good writing needs to work."

She shook her head. "That's not what I was doing."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mean… it's not like I have to write these."

He smiled, but nodded. "I know you don't."

"I'm doing them for myself. I can write as many or as few as I want. And I don't always have to show them to you."

"I know you don't," he repeated.

"I only show them to you as a courtesy."

Now he smiled. "A courtesy, huh? So you assume that I like reading them? That I wait with bated breath for you to tell me you have more?"

She blushed. "I didn't say that…"

He shrugged. "Because that would be pretty arrogant."

Her blush deepened. "I didn't mean—"

He interrupted her. "Although that wouldn't make it any less true." He grinned.

She bit her lip in an entirely unsuccessful effort to stop herself from grinning back. But it wasn't long before she came back to earth and her grin fell. "You didn't like it, though. The last one."

He frowned and quickly shook his head. "No, that's not true. It's not that I didn't like it. I did. It's… you know. More of your past that I wouldn't know if you hadn't chosen to share it with me, and I love that. And I know it's obviously something important to you if you chose to write about it, I just… I know you. I've seen your work, and I know what you're capable of. This is great, I just think you could've done it better. That's all."

"Well… how?"

"You tell me." He handed the notebook back to her. "The purpose of this is to help you remember, right? You read this and tell me what you remember. What the writing helps you to picture that wasn't already in your head."

She took it with a sigh, a little frustrated with the exercise, but began reading. "I can… I can remember the way the food smelled."

He nodded. "Good. Yeah, I agree. That part was good."

She turned back to the page and pointed at it. "And the sound of her voice there. I can hear it."

He smiled. "Great. That's the dialogue. Dialogue's good."

She looked at him. "I just can't always remember specific things that were said."

He shrugged. "It's okay to make it up to some extent, as long as it's close. Sometimes just having that little bit of specificity in there makes the whole thing flow better, and that makes it easier to form a picture."

She eyed him like he'd suddenly grown a third head. "I don't want to make it up. I'm not you."

He threw up his hands. "Another argument for another time. Just keep reading."

She looked back at the page and then shrugged. "That's it, I guess. That's all I can picture."

He smiled. "That's because after that point you get really general. This was something that happened every week, right?"

She nodded.

"Well that's fine, but you don't have to write about it all at once. Smaller pieces are better because you can be more specific. Maybe narrow it to just one week."

She stared at the page for a few seconds and then shook her head. "It was a long time ago, Castle. And it was… just a normal occurrence. I can't remember one specific week."

"Try."

"No! You don't think I'm trying? I wish I could remember, but I can't. Twelve years is a long time, Castle, and most of this stuff happened longer ago than that. There are some memories that are gone. Just gone."

His heart sank rapidly. He'd been paying too much attention to the writing, the work, the task at hand, and not enough attention to her. He'd seen her frustration but had thought he could push her through it, and he hadn't noticed the moment when it turned to pain. Now her beautiful eyes were brimming with tears, and it was his fault. He'd pushed too hard.

He'd coached new writers before, but this, he reminded himself, was different. Her goal was not to get published and become famous, but to create pieces of writing that would help her to vividly remember her mother. And because of the project and the goal, her situation was more fragile than most. It wasn't uncommon for writers to become attached to their work, but Kate's bond with hers was stronger than most. When he critiqued her writing, he was also critiquing her memories, her childhood, her mother. He had to remember to be careful.

After all, his situation was also fragile. He was still in the beginning stages of a very new kind of relationship with his muse, and if he did the wrong thing it would be easy for her to push him away. And that was something he did not want to happen. He'd worked hard, gone through a lot to get to where he was today, as had Kate. The last thing he wanted was to ruin all of that progress by saying or doing something stupid.

"I'm sorry," he said gently. No contact, he reminded himself. He wanted to touch her shoulder or maybe hold her hand, but he could tell she wasn't in the frame of mind to allow that. No matter what their relationship, how much it grew, he knew it would never be okay for him to touch her when she was annoyed with him. It would never help, it would only irritate her more. This was simply a fact of Kate. So instead he reached out to her with his eyes.

This she accepted, and she met them for a second before she blinked the tears away. "It's okay," she said. "I know you're trying to help, but there are some things I just don't remember."

He sighed, because it hurt to see her lose hope. Physically hurt, somewhere deep within his chest. She must have seen this, because she took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. It's okay, her eyes said, just as she had. I'm okay. We're okay.

This was good, and for a second he thought about leaving tonight's writing lesson at that. But there was a very fine line between knowing when to stop and coddling. He didn't want to push its boundary, and he knew his role here. He was supposed to help. Helping her to improve her writing would help her to remember, he truly believed that. "I'll bet you remember more than you realize," he insisted. "The more you write, the more will come back. I can promise you that."

She seemed to deflate just a little, but she didn't let go of his hand or even loosen her grip. If anything, he could almost have sworn he felt it get the slightest bit tighter. "I can't…" she began, but then she took a breath and restarted. "Maybe if I had somewhere to start, that would be true. But I can't just manufacture a memory out of thin air because you want me to be more specific."

"That's not what I'm saying."

She sighed. "Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying… see that thing you're holding in your hand?"

She turned the pen he'd bought her between her fingers. "Yeah."

"What is it?"

She started to roll her eyes but stopped herself, closed them for a beat longer than a blink, and then opened them again and met his. "A pen," she said dryly.

"Yeah…" he said, looking at it. "It's a pen. Very good."

She frowned. "…thanks?"

"But I don't want you to think of it as a pen."

She rolled her eyes, not bothering to stop herself this time. "Oh, here we go. Okay, Castle. How would you prefer me to think of this object which is obviously a pen?"

"Think of it," he said, flat-out ignoring her obvious patronizing, "as a shovel."

"A shovel," she repeated, still turning the object in her hand. "Okay fine, I'll bite. Why?"

"Because when you write, you're not just writing. You're digging, deeper and deeper into the story. Or in your case, deeper and deeper into your memory."

But she was still skeptical. "Wouldn't that tear the paper?" she asked with a smirk.

"Oh, that's very good," he said, smiling. He was glad that, if nothing else, he'd managed to cheer her up again. "Joke all you want, but I'm not wrong. This?" he tapped the page of the notebook, which she still held, open. "This is good, but you're just scratching the surface. I'd like to see you break through a couple of layers. See what's underneath. That's all I'm saying."

"A shovel," she said again skeptically, looking at her pen.

"It's a metaphor," he said. "Just go with it."

"Okay," she sighed. "Dig into it? Like, take what's there, and just go deeper?"

Castle smiled. Finally she was getting it. "Exactly."

"Deeper… doesn't necessarily have to mean more specific though, does it?"

He frowned, but slowly nodded. "No, you're right. That was just a suggestion. It's your piece, if you have an idea that you like better, go with that."

"Okay." She slowly released her grip on his hand and then finally let it go. "I think I have an idea."

He smiled, because he really believed that this was good for her. "See? Go for it. I'm sure it'll be great."

She nodded and began writing, focused intently on the page. It seemed like as good a time as any to start cleaning up the remnants of their dinner so she wouldn't have to do it later, so he picked up a few of the takeout containers and brought them into her kitchen.

He washed the dishes they'd used that weren't disposable and managed to find places for the uneaten food in her fridge. When he'd done all of this and he thought he'd given her enough time to write without it feeling like he was watching her, he went back into the living room.

He'd left a calm, confident Beckett, ready to begin writing again. But when he returned, the notebook was closed on the coffee table and she was backed as far away from it as possible on the couch, face wet and eyes red.

"Hey, hey, hey," he heard himself say, a reaction without any actual thought behind it. "What happened? You were fine a minute ago."

"I, um," she sighed, "I dug too deep."

"Ohh-kay…" He sat down close beside her and put his arm around her. "Shh-shh," he soothed. "It's okay. I'm right here. You're okay."

She took his hand and held it tightly once again. It wasn't long before her breathing slowed and the tears stopped coming. "Ugh," she finally sniffed. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" He ran his hand up and down her arm. "Don't be sorry. It's my fault. I pushed you."

"No, I should've known to stop. I just kind of… got caught up in it."

"You know I'm gonna have to read it, right?"

She nodded. "You can." But she didn't let go of his hand.

It was now for the first time that he noticed she wasn't just holding his hand for comfort. She was clutching it like some kind of lifeline, like she was hanging from a window and his hand was the only thing stopping her from falling to her doom. It wasn't as if he minded holding her hand, but this worried him a little. "Kate," he began with a soft frown. He nodded at their hands, an unspoken question in his eyes.

"Oh," she realized, letting go. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine, it's just… I don't get it. What's wrong?"

She sighed, and then handed him the notebook without opening it. "Just read."

He flipped open to the page she'd last marked. "I like the bookmark."

She smiled a little. "It was my mom's."

"Ah." That explained why she'd been so insistent that he not buy her a new one. It was better this way. Fitting.

He found the entry he'd read earlier, found the two paragraphs she'd added to the end, and began reading.

Something about it just made me feel safe. Whatever happened, whatever was going on in my life, I knew that every Sunday morning when I walked into the kitchen, I'd find my mom standing at the counter in her jeans, which she only ever wore on weekends, her hair twisted into a bun, and my dad at the table with his newspaper, which he'd put down as soon as he saw me. It was our little tradition. It tied us together as a family. Even if it was only once a week and only for an hour or two, we were all together, all on the same page. And once a week for an hour or two, I felt like I was a part of something so strong that it could never be broken.

He stopped and smiled when he got to the end of the first paragraph she'd added. "This is perfect. I don't understand why you're so upset."

She shook her head. "You haven't read the last paragraph yet. Keep going."

He nodded and went on.

I was wrong. Nothing is that strong. Everything can be broken. I'll never forget that first Sunday after she was killed. The usual Sunday morning smells didn't greet me in my bed, but still I went straight to the kitchen, and part of me expected to see her there cooking, just like always. Of course she wasn't. That was the moment when it really hit me that she was gone.

He felt his heart break a little more with every word he read, and by the time he finished the paragraph he wanted to cry. But of course he didn't. "My God, Kate," he said instead. "Why did you write this?"

She shrugged. "It just… came. The bad memories are never very far from the good, and sometimes… it's hard to separate them."

On a hunch he held out his hand for her, and she accepted it gratefully, holding on like she had been before. "You can, though," he told her. "Separate them. I know you can. If you would've just stopped writing at the end of that first paragraph…"

"What? Then everything would be perfect? It's all part of my memory, and I'm supposed to be recording it, not altering it."

He shook his head. "You're supposed to be recording the details about your mother, the things you want to remember. Not every devastating moment surrounding her death. You remember enough of that. Don't write it down."

"But then… it's like I'm not telling the whole story."

"Yeah you are, it's just a different story. You're telling the story of your mother's life. Not yours. Not her death. Her life. And anyway, this isn't true."

She frowned. "What's not true?"

"There are things that can't be broken."

She looked very tired. "Like what?"

"Love," he said simply. But she was still looking at him skeptically, so he continued. "Your love for your mom. Your dad's love for you. None of that changed. And you're still part of a family. It might be a different dynamic now, but it's still a family."

She shook her head. "It's completely different."

For the first time, he wondered if maybe there was a reason she seemed to be gravitating more toward his family lately. Maybe those little things, like having meals together, reminded her of a part of her past that she missed the most. And suddenly, he was completely onboard with the idea that she'd invited them over. Maybe it wouldn't be putting her out after all. Maybe it was exactly what she needed. And with that thought, he changed the subject. "Do you still want to have us over for dinner some night?"

She took a beat to answer, thrown off by the sudden change, but caught up quickly and seemed relieved. "Yeah, definitely."

"When?"

"Oh… I don't know. When would be good for you? You have more schedules to coordinate than I do."

"But yours is the least flexible. You pick a day, we'll make it work."

"Okay… how about this Saturday? I don't have to work, so I'll have plenty of time to get ready."

He nodded. "Sounds perfect to me. We'll be there."

She smiled. "Good." Her smiled faded when she glanced back at the notebook he was still holding on his lap. "So… what do we do about…?"

"Oh. Right. Do you have scissors?"

She frowned. "Yeah?"

"Get them."

Although somewhat reluctantly, she left the room and reemerged with scissors. "What are you going to do with them?" she wanted to know before she handed them over.

"Just trust me."

She rolled her eyes and gave them to him. He immediately took them and began cutting a straight line down the bottom of the last page she'd written on.

"Castle, what are you doing? You're gonna mess it up."

"No, I'm gonna fix it. This paragraph isn't part of your project. It has nothing to do with what you're supposed to be writing about. And there's nothing written on the other side of the page yet, so we'll just get rid of it." He finished cutting it out and looked at her, triumphant, before getting up and heading for her kitchen. "Now. Do you have matches?"

Her expression was horrified and her response was immediate. "No! Castle, you are not setting that on fire here!"

"Why not?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't you remember what happened to my last apartment? I'd rather not repeat that."

"I can promise you that nothing will explode. We'll do it over the sink, it'll be fine."

She got in front of him and stopped before he could get to the kitchen, barely two inches of space separating them. "There will be no fire." No trace of a smile crossed her lips. She'd put her foot down on his big plan. "Just throw it away. I know it's not as dramatic as you'd like, but it'll work, I promise."

But this, he wouldn't have. "No way. There's nothing poetic about throwing it away. You need more closure than that, to know that it no longer exists, not anywhere."

"Oh, is that what I need?" she asked him, her tone deeply sarcastic.

"Yes. I think it is." He folded the paper in half and slipped it into his pocket. "I'll keep it, and the next time you're at my loft we'll burn it in the fireplace. Nice and safe."

Apparently she saw that she wasn't going to win this argument, so she started a new one. "Why can't I keep it until then?"

"Because I don't want you reading it."

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know, but I can picture it, and I'm not okay with that picture. Anyway, if you're not going to read it anyway, what difference does it make if I take it?"

"Fine," she sighed. "Take it. It's getting late, you probably have to go, right?"

He looked at his phone. It was after nine already. "Probably should. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, you will."

He started toward the door, but she stopped him. "Wait."

He turned back to her with a frown. "What?"

"Come here."

"I haven't… gone anywhere yet."

She rolled her eyes. "No, I mean come here." She took a step toward him.

He did the same, still a little confused. "I thought I was leaving."

She took another step, until it wasn't possible for them to get much closer, reached up a little, and lightly kissed his lips.

All traces of confusion vanished and he kissed her back, allowing his lips to linger on hers until she gently pushed him away.

"Always trying to one-up me, aren't you?" she asked him playfully.

"That's because you're such a tease." He kissed her again. "I always want more than you give me the first time around."

"Ever think I might do that on purpose?"

He took half a step back, not enough to put any real distance between them, but enough to get his point across. "Why Kate Beckett, I would never accuse you of doing such a thing!" He closed the small space he'd put between them once again. "I'm impressed." He kissed her once more. "It doesn't really matter, though," he said. "No matter how much you give me, I'll always want more."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "From me, I hope," she teased.

He nodded, but without a smile, because as far as he was concerned, it wasn't a funny question. "Only from you."

There's a lot in this chapter (plus it's long...), so I'm not going to say much because I want it to speak for itself. I'll keep it simple. Please review, and thanks for reading! :)