Chapter Nineteen: The clock is stuck on thoughts of you and me.

Soothing hot water cascades in rivers over his body and the steam is so thick in the air that he can barely see. He's alone and yet he isn't; she's right here with him in the shower. Kate's essence surrounds him, all the vivid memories playing in his head like movies of just how often he's taken her right here.

Castle scrubs the soap mechanically over his torso and yet swears he feels her hands on him instead. Closing his eyes just makes it worse; in the dark behind his lids she's like a phantom – so very close now. The bright light of the bathroom is preferable; at least it helps to hold the overwhelming imagery somewhat at bay.

He gets out as quickly as he can.

He'd thought he was in bad shape handling his desire for Kate before, but it's become extreme now. Between last night and then this morning, and how much the distance between them seems to have narrowed, it physically hurts every moment that his arms are empty. And of course being the reckless fool that he is, he's tempted fate all morning by holding hands with her.

It was, he admits, somewhat careless of him. He doesn't want his body's need to make decisions for him, and it would be so very easy to just give in to the passion between them once again.

Grabbing a waiting fluffy bath sheet from the rack he pulls it to him swiftly, burying his face at once. Sighing softly into the fabric, the writer scrubs it hard over his features before he towels his hair free of all the excess water, wrapping it around his waist when he's done. Sinking down onto the closed lid of the toilet, Castle leans forward until he can rest his elbows on his knees, his face comes down to hide in the cradle of his hands.

God, he's just exhausted.

And it's everything. Physically, mentally, emotionally maybe most of all, and yet things are better right now - if he lays his residual concerns for his mother aside – better than they've been since . . .

He's grateful.

Its early afternoon and he and Kate have only just gotten back to the house. Their early morning walk lasted for hours, covered miles and has closed the gap between them even further. He really doesn't think he's ever seen her quite like this before.

In the years of their working partnership, and even in the couple of years they were together before they'd gotten hitched, their track record was always this complete mixed bag with regards to communication between the two of them.

Work wise they could communicate and follow each others line of thinking like they were each using the same brain – but only on a case. Outside of that narrow purview they were hopeless. They could say everything by saying nothing, just as easily as they could completely misread each and every unspoken sign. Talking – forget about it, and though they both always held back for fear of screwing up, it spilled over even into their marriage. They'd certainly gotten much better by then, but it's never been like this. It's never been like it was today.

Today he met a version of his wife without any walls. And he liked it. He liked it a lot.

And still they managed to spend a lot of time in silence. Wandering hand in hand and just allowing the other ones proximity to really sink in. The simplicity of it, the reality of it, he wasn't prepared for how very much it moved him. He kept catching himself marveling at how right it felt, the gentle weight of her hand once again within his. He kept being pummeled by this undeniable sense of 'home'.

It was as tentative and wonderful as it was disturbing.

And when he got spooked, when he'd withdraw for long moments because he simply couldn't prevent himself from doing it, she'd look at him with such sadness, such fierce resolve in her eyes. He'd watch her steel herself for his rejection and then open herself up in spite of it, offering him another piece of her story from this last year until he could lower his defenses once again.

It's filled so much of the empty space inside him just to feel like he finally understands. For all the times when he'd hated himself for not being enough to keep her, to all the moments when he hated her so badly for leaving him behind - reasons.

Not excuses.

And that's why he's finding himself daring to believe in this progress that they've made. Kate's honest accounting of where in her head she's been all this time. She's so very strong, in so many ways, but he sees clearly now that she's almost pathologically afraid of both loss and failure. And the deadly combination of both that she felt when their son died – it was lethal. She lost control of her own mind in an almost unending tailspin from there.

He's not sure why it helps to know that there is nothing that he could have done or said that would have changed anything, but it does help. There is a freedom in that realization.

It offers him this path, unsure and a little rocky, and nothing like what had been a dead straight road. But the path is there. It beckons; it promises him treasures but only if he's willing to forgo the far easier road ahead.

It shakes him to his very core.

It was only yesterday that he was completely certain that they couldn't even be friends, and now he can't help thinking – maybe?

Just, maybe it's even still possible that they could be . . . More.

Wow.

His stomach disrupts his musings at this point by rumbling loudly, and Castle sits up as it dawns on him he hasn't actually eaten anything since dinner last night. He hasn't had any coffee to drink either. Standing the writer towels his body dry and exits the bathroom, where he smells it immediately.

Really?

He can smell that, can't he? The absolutely heavenly scent wafting through the open bedroom door, it smells like coffee and bacon.

He dresses quickly, still exhausted, but somehow just a little less so than before.

Kate moves around the kitchen's familiar space, humming ever so softly under her breath. It's barely there, just this tiny lilting melody bubbling within her, buoyed by a growing feeling of hopefulness again.

Though it's been a roller-coaster of a day so far, she's firmly stuck with her plan, determined to be more open with Castle today than she's ever previously been. With anyone, Dr. Burke himself included. And she would have to say that in all honesty, it feels amazing. Letting go of the fear of being judged and found lacking that everyone hides inside their ego's, she's just pushed against it time after time in order to share all that she's ashamed of, all she regrets so bitterly about her behavior towards him over the last year.

Studying his eyes as she'd spoken, wondering if any of her inadequate, inarticulate words made sense, it surprised her again and again to see nothing but genuine relief in his gaze. She'd found him. She could see him there in the man before her. The Richard Castle she'd married two years ago peeking out, real, and still existing beneath all the layers of his pain. And she feels so – validated. All the reasons she's held onto, everything she explained to Lanie just a few weeks back. It was right, she was right to come back to him. It was the correct decision, not just for her but for the both of them, forcing her better self to stand up and fight for this.

What they are, what they have, it's broken but it sure isn't finished. That might be her only certainty right now, but if she can be sure of anything then Kate's glad it's that.

She doesn't hear him descending the stairs, or entering the kitchen behind her.

She's humming as she's cooking, and it knocks the wind right out of him. The domestic side of her, so different from the bad-ass cop, all soft and feminine has always managed to hit him for six. He loves the bad-ass, he does, her training, her strength, the fact he knows she can easily take him, it's hot as hell. But the unguarded, off-duty, snugly woman who loves surprisingly geeky things, revels in his strength and loved to wrap herself around him – that's the one who steals his breath away.

Castle swallows hard, completely taken by how amazed he is to see that woman again in the Kate who stands before him. God alone knows how much he has missed her, how hard it was to come to the belief he'd never see her again.

And yet there she is.

The writer stares helplessly for just a moment, it takes a conscious effort of will before he gets a grip on his emotions, making light of the whole thing.

"Wow, breakfast food for lunch, Kate? I should have thought of that."

Kate startles, and then snorts at the stove, unable to contain the automatic retort.

"Yeah, I'm thinking it might take off," she teases. "Here's a thought – we could call it, 'Br-unch'," she says spinning around to face him with the spatula waving in her hand dramatically.

She hasn't showered like he has, to warm up from hours outside in the light rain. She's disheveled, hair loosely tied back in a messy bun, her damp beach clothes still on – she must look awful. But when Castle smiles at her it's warmly. And its traces of heat she detects in his eyes as they take in her appearance, enough that it almost stops her heart dead in her chest.

And it's all just so – back then.

She blinks, and her heart thuds loudly, but Castle continues on into the room seemingly unaffected. He then proceeds to steal bacon, same as he always does, to which end she shoots him a glare which just gets her his raised eyebrow and it's not tentative. There is nothing distrustful, or awkward in their interaction, for the first time in forever they're just them.

They watch movies quietly all afternoon.

The rain has picked up; storm clouds are rolling in over the beach, and by the time six o'clock rolls around the June sky is so dark it feels like night has already fallen.

By some unspoken, mutual agreement they've not spoken further on Jack's death all day, or all the long months that have separated them. But with the coming storm outside, the wind picking up and gusting against the windows it's like the unsettledness of nature outside has suddenly set up home somewhere within. The anniversary of their loss and the inevitable reliving of that tragedy are almost upon them.

Castle pushes off the sofa as the final credits of 'Reign of Assassins' rolls on the den's flat screen. Kate watches him silently as he makes his way over to the bar tucked into an alcove on the far side of the room, with his face lit only by the ambient light of the TV; his expression is to her completely unreadable.

The writer pours himself a neat scotch. Holding the decanter up, he raises his eyebrow at her silently asking. She shakes her head and he shrugs, replacing the ornate crystal stopper, he pads slowly over to open the blinds drawn over the room's double windows. Beyond the glass the whole world looks a dark grey/black, and impressive waves crash loudly against the shore, propelled with force from an angry ocean.

"I didn't feel you'd stay," he says at length and over his shoulder, his voice quiet but loud in the room all at the same time.

"I know," she replies. "I still have much to prove to you."

Turning her husband eyes her darkly.

"You've changed how I feel about a lot of things today, Kate," he confesses. "But I feel like I have whiplash. I mean it's only been a day and my head is just baffled by what my heart is feeling."

Kate shakes her head.

"It's been eight," she counters quietly, "Eight days - since I came back to you."

Castle laughs then, but there's little humor in it.

"Okay," he says. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm all at sea and tomorrow . . . "he trails off, his head dropping on his shoulders as he hides the words he might have spoken, drowning them in the downing of his scotch instead.

Kate sighs.

"Tomorrow is a new day," she says. The words are offered gently, quietly, hopefully even.

They surprise him.

His head snaps up again, his eyes seeking.

She holds them with hers which are dark and calm in the dimness, open and waiting.

"Kate," he whispers. "Kate, how can it have been a year?" He says it so brokenly and though they both knew it was coming, though the date has been weighing heavily for months already – it seems Castle is the one who's suddenly reeling here.

Kate pushes to her feet and cautiously approaches him.

"I don't know," she answers carefully. "Some moments it feels like just yesterday and some it feels like another life, Castle. And maybe it will always seem that way."

"I miss it," he replies. "I miss all of it. Both him . . . and you."

She goes to reply, to find words of reassurance, something to tell him she feels the same way, but before she can speak he reaches out for her. Strong hands grasp and tug, roughly, and his mouth is savage as it covers her.