A/N: I told myself that I would write this until Transformers had finished playing, and if I hadn't finished by the time it had then I would finish it tomorrow. Needless to say, that did not happen.

Disclaimer: oops it's nearly 3am?

He almost slips over when the shower door opens, stumbles backwards against the wall. Kate doesn't come in straight away, stands there with the steam curling around her naked body. Her skin is near flawless, the scar at her ribs pink and pale, the small circle of puckered skin in between her breasts barely visible. Looking nothing like the Kate from the past few months. Her stare isn't as intense, her eyes that magic mix between hazel and green that used to greet him in the mornings. She doesn't speak a word as she steps in with him, doesn't even blink as the jet of water hits her. It catches on her hair, her eyelashes, but she still ignores the stream of water into her eyes. Just stands there, leaving him enough room to wash. He twists himself away from her, reaches out for the body wash with a trembling hand. He tries to wash, but her arms are around him, restricting his movement. The cold of her skin is a surprise, especially since she's been standing under hot water, and it makes his skin crawl. Kate's skin is supposed to be warm and soft, pliable, her curves fitting against his in a way that just feels right. But this… this Kate, she's cold and hard, her hip bones too sharp, her skin too thin against her rib cage.

"Castle."

He almost doesn't hear it over the sound of the shower. Barely catches it over the thundering of his own heart. She whispers it, sounds almost like when she wakes him up in the morning with her mouth ghosting across his jaw, her hand already slipping under his shirt, nails scraping against the skin underneath his belly button.

It's the first time she's spoken, the first time she's the one to reach out and touch him. He's tried to avoid her, tried to override his brains natural instinct just to reach out for her. Even if it's just to slide his fingers through her hair, or tuck a stray curl behind her ear, a brush of fingers around a coffee mug, he likes that physicality, that phantom feeling that stays in his fingertips for a few moments afterwards. It's like a drug, something that he can't go without for long periods of time, has to keep going back for more. Only, it's different now. She's different. She's not real. As much as he loves the paranormal and believing in ghosts and vampires and aliens and werewolves, he knows it's just fantasy. She isn't a ghost, or some ethereal being, hell, she's not even a zombie. But he just can't rid himself of her. That (admittedly large) part of his brain that is so finely tuned to her just won't let her go. Refuses to believe that she has actually gone and that she's not coming back.

"Castle."

"Ka-Kate, I –" his breath is shaky, and it's suddenly so hard to breath, the steam catching in his throat and making him choke.

He twists the dial for the shower rather more forcefully than necessary, the water going from hot to cold in seconds, hitting his skin in an icy spray. It makes him gasp, that instinct pushing him backwards and away from it. It's almost too late before he realises that he's just going to find himself closer to Kate, and he tries to stop but it's too late. And yet, he never hits her. His back hits the glass wall with a harsh squeak, and the momentum makes his feet slide along the floor, his back squeaking down the glass until he's sat on the floor, his knees drawn up against his chest to try and protect himself from the onslaught of water.

She's laughing at him. Dancing away on nimble feet, bottom lip caught between her teeth. There's snowflakes caught in her hair, tied up in two loose plaits that make her look five years younger. He's standing there, completely struck dumb by her (what's new, honestly), the snowball that he was planning on throwing at her is limp in his hand.

"Stop being a baby, Castle. Throw the damn snowball at me."

"I don't want to." He hesitates, dropping it back into the snow. "I'm not stupid enough to start a snowball war with you. No. Not happening."

Kate raised any eyebrow at him, far too amused. "Scared?"

"Yes. You're very scary when you're on a mission. I have firsthand experience of you on a mission. I still have the bruise on my shin when you insisted on seducing me in the back seat of my car and I fell and landed on the handbrake. And I won't mention the time that you were that impatient to get in through the door that my jacket got caught on the handle and you just ripped it away! I had a giant hole!"

Kate smirked, and walked towards him until she could stand in between his legs. "It was worth it though, right? The bruised shin, and the torn jacket?"

"Not forgetting that lamp you broke on my desk."

"I seem to remember that being your fault. You tugged on my shoe too hard."

Castle wrapped an arm around her waist, tugged her closer until her hips jerked into his. Her eyes darkened slightly, her cheeks flushed pink from that vague hint of arousal and the biting cold of Central Park. "I was writing, and you came along and started doing inappropriate things while sat on my desk."

"I'd been trying to get your attention for ten minutes. Desperate measures, you know." She nipped at the soft skin of his jaw, grinned when his fingers tightened against her jacket. "Pay attention to me next time and maybe I won't let you get so worked up."

"You're so hot when you get bossy. I say scrap the snowball fight. Pillow fights are definitely all the rage right now."

"I don't want a pillow fight, Castle."

"Urgh, you're such a spoil sport."

"Well, I was going to suggest something a little bit more fun and doesn't ruin pillows at the same time, but if your heart is set on a pillow fight then I guess I'll just have to oblige…"

He has no idea why this memory keeps playing over and over in his head. It cuts out before it can get to the pillow fight, and he's glad. He's glad because when they're both sweaty and naked and sated and only a little bit covered in feathers he rolls over, takes a few seconds of peace to let her stroke her fingertips across his cheekbone, her eyes tender and full of so much love, love that she can confess as easily as asking for a cup of coffee, and he asks her to marry him. He doesn't think he could live right now if that was what he was watching in his mind. He'd scream, and he'd go crazy. Or crazier. For all he knows he's already lost it, daunted by the loss of his wife, the grief tearing him apart from the inside. God, the press would have a field day.

Richard Castle, best-selling author, who hasn't left the loft in days, has two days worth of stubble because there's no one around to complain about it being too scratchy on her skin, has only changed out of his pyjamas to get into the shower. They'd spin it out of control, he'd never be left alone. Paula and Gina have been magnificent, herding away the press, handling statements and leaving him to grieve. He knows he can't stay like that forever, knows that one day he'll have to face the world, and the press, and the prospect of writing something that isn't Nikki Heat. He knows that's it for Nikki and Rook, couldn't possibly bear the idea of writing their story when he doesn't have a hope of finishing his own. Truth be told, he doesn't need to write anything else. He has more than enough money to tide himself over until his heart stops beating and his lungs stop breathing. Alexis isn't so dependent on him anymore, her own life starting its own path, and really Martha isn't as high maintenance as he makes her out to be.

Alexis greets him with a tight but warm smile as she steps in through the door, grief still etched into her mouth, her eyes. Even her nose. She's tried to be there for him, tried to help him through it all, but she's struggling to break through. And he wishes he could make it easier on her, wishes that they could help each other through it. But he can't. He's too caught up in the way that his room is too quiet at night, one heartbeat instead of two, the sound of her soft breathing that usually lulls him into a deep sleep is missing. She doesn't curl up next to him on the couch anymore, her toes no longer wriggling under his thighs to steal his body heat, her hands don't play with the hair at the nape of his neck while she's reading, almost like she doesn't know she's doing it. He doesn't think about what Kate and Alexis did, the Christmas shopping and the baking and the girly afternoon's where he was kicked out of the loft in favour of ice cream and girly movies. He hates himself for it, hates that he just can't be there for his daughter. She loved Kate too, even though they had their difficulties, he knows that they loved each other.

"Hey, Dad." He smiles back at her but he barely notices the twitch at the corners of his lips. "I bought food. I didn't know if you'd eaten, so…"

He shakes his head because really food is the farthest thing from his mind. He doesn't feel hungry anymore. He's just numb to everything. Alexis is already pouring soup into a saucepan, fishing two bowls out. He forces himself off the sofa, stretches and feels the bones in his shoulders and back crack. "How are you?"

"I'm coping." She replies, bringing the stove to life with a flick of her wrist. "Work is keeping me distracted." She turns her eyes on him, pale and blue. "I'm just… I'm worried about you."

He has the grace to look sheepish, looks down at his shuffling feet. "I know, I… I've not been easy, and…"

"Don't apologise, Dad. I'm not expecting you to apologise. You're grieving, you shouldn't have to. But it's been a month and a half, and I'm not expecting you to have moved on. I'm really not. But when was the last time you were dressed? Or talked to Ryan and Esposito? You're getting stuck in this rut and I'm scared that you're going to be in it forever, and I don't want to lose my dad to it. I loved Kate, you know I did, but I don't want to see you so completely caught up in her that you forget you still have people who love you, and who would do anything for you." She turned away abruptly, stirs at the soup with a spoon, and he feigns deafness when he hears the telltale sniffle.

"I keep… seeing her." He begins, sliding onto one of the bar stools. "When I got back from the funeral she was… standing in the kitchen. It was like she'd never been in a car crash. And she was … she felt real. I could touch her." Alexis looks at him, fear suddenly flooding into her eyes. "I know she's not real. She's not a ghost, or… whatever. It's not her. Something just doesn't feel right about her, and it's just my mind playing tricks on me. But no matter what I do, I can't make her go away."

"Is she… here now?" Alexis ventures, turning off the now boiling soup.

Castle shakes his head, doesn't even need to look around to know. "I don't understand it. I know it's not her. I know there is no possible way that she's magically come back from the dead, so why do I keep seeing her?"

His daughter pushes a steaming bowl towards him, complete with spoon, and regards him with her own lip between her teeth, chewing on it. "I… don't know what you want me to say to that."

"I don't know what I want you to say to it either." He huffed, and it was almost, almost a laugh. "I don't know if I'm going crazy, or what."

"I can get you an appointment with a doctor. They'd know, right? They must have dealt with this kind of things."

He nods in agreements, stirs the soup round and round with his spoon. "Yeah…"

"Don't tell me you want to live like this, Dad. Please don't tell me that living the rest of your life being haunted by her is what you want."

"It's not. Believe me, it's not. Truth be told, I'm terrified when she's… here. But in a way… it feels almost like home. But, no, Alexis. I'll phone the doctors. I can't depend on you forever."