MAELSTROM

CHAPTER TWO – KEEP TALKING

A/N - long chapters coming up. Thanks for the welcome, guys! Again, 47alwayswriting was a great help in making sense of some of my mess.

Disclaimer - I still don't own Castle, or Pink Floyd. Or Stephen Hawking for that matter.

"I'm so sorry, Castle. I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry..."

"What happened?"

"He got away. And I didn't care. I almost died...and all I could think about was you."

"I just want you."

"...I just want you..."

The memory of the last coherent words she whispered to him keeps ringing pleasantly in his head, over and over.

Outside, the storm just won't quit. Torrential rain smashes punishingly against the windows, and the frequent crashes of lightning rip the darkness apart with shocking violence.

The rainfall seemed to intensify their first time together. The pounding of water against the world, cleansing and purifying it, couldn't have been a more appropriate backdrop for their frenzied, life-affirming lovemaking. In the aftermath, listening to the cacophony is comforting. It's a reminder that while out there is chaos and tumult, in here, in his loft, in his bedroom, in his bed, there is warmth, shelter and peace.

Castle finds himself idly wondering if his overactive imagination has finally taken over and he's now certifiably insane. Then again, if this is insanity, he'll gladly sign up to being swaddled in a straitjacket for life. Because lying in his arms, the comfortable weight of one leg draped over both of his, is Kate Beckett.

He supposes that he might be dreaming. But no dream has ever felt this real. If it is one, it is astounding in its detail and textures.

He's pretty sure he never dreamed that he'd be lazily studying the patterns of dim light gleaming softly on her sweat-streaked back. Nor can he recall ever feeling the warm breath of Kate Beckett in the hollow of his neck in any sleeping fantasies he's ever had about her. And he's had plenty.

He knows that the feel of her nose as it nuzzles against the stubble under his chin is more than just a product of his nightly subconscious going mad. And her lips, as they gently suckle and murmur sweet nonsensical nothings... and there's no way he could have ever dreamed that Beckett would even be capable of sweet nonsensical nothings. This quiet, tender Beckett is also such a contrast to the very enthusiastic, commanding woman who just ravished – and ravaged – him. And he still can't believe that happened either. Even with all the physical evidence at hand, let alone the vivid memories branded into his brain; memories he knows will last until he expels his final breath.

She was right, after all, all those four years ago: he'd had no idea. About a lot of things. But mostly, just how right it would feel, in post-coital bliss, with her. Never in a million years would he have imagined the sheer joy that having her naked body pressed to his would bring him. Considering the way they'd parted in her apartment a night ago, it's almost impossible to believe that she's here at all. And that she gave herself to him, so openly, so unlike the guarded, closed-off Beckett who has enraged and enraptured him for so long.

The Kate Beckett he's known all this time is still there. He knows that the logical, hard-headed, tenacious cop hasn't changed. But this Kate Beckett, this warm, passionate woman...she's a revelation. He hoped and dreamed, of course. He's wanted to be with her for so long now that the longing might as well have become part of his DNA.

He'd long ago proved to her that he was more than a thorn in her side, and then showed her that he was much more than the mildly irritating Court Jester who provided the occasional glimpse of brilliance. He was her partner. Her friend. But after last night, when he bitterly, brokenly declared his love for her knowing that she had no choice but to hear and acknowledge it, he never thought that he'd have the chance to show her that he could be more. Especially after he'd walked away.

He wasn't even sure if she deserved his love anymore.

She was too consumed, too obsessed. In her raging quest to bring the light of truth to those dark corners, she'd blinded herself, permanently, to anything they might have had together. He had meant it – he was done. It was over.

Even when she'd shown up at his door, bedraggled and forlorn (but still, so, so beautiful) – he'd not for one instant thought that she wanted him, if she ever really had. That damn wall she'd built was so high, so hateful, so despicably strong. And even without the wall, there was all the hurt they'd caused each other. Their mutual betrayals. It was all too much.

But then she told him. And then showed him. And god, how she showed him.

"I just want you."

He knows he should ask her about the other things she said.

She almost died? What? He got away? Who? Her shooter? Where?

What the hell actually happened?

The thing is, though, he can't bring himself to care all that much. Truth be told, he'd be happy to lie here in this wonderful bubble, neither of them speaking, forever. His rational mind tells him that of course this isn't going to last (someone will break the silence soon; hell, at the very least, they'll sleep, or he'll have to get up to pee), but the pure joy he feels as he gently, lazily runs one hand up and down her spine, revelling in the sensation as her breath hitches slightly at his touch almost makes him believe that forever could last right here, right now. At the very least, he could die a happy man at this instant and be totally satisfied.

If he's completely honest with himself, the prospect of having those important talks – even the innocuous ones that normal lovers have – is kind of daunting at the moment. So he doesn't feel the need to try and change it. For once in his life, he's happy to remain quiet.

To bask in the darkness, in blissful, meaningful silence.

Until she breaks it.

"Castle?"

Her voice is quiet, scratchy, and raw. She'd...yelled a bit before. Okay, she can admit it to herself. She'd screamed. Thank god no one else is home. She just hopes the walls of the apartment are as thick as they are undoubtedly expensive.

"Hmmm?" he murmurs after a little while, as though he's reluctant to answer her. She understands the reluctance. For a while the only noises permeating their pleasantly lazy stupor have been their mutual, slowly-deepening breathing and the muffled roar of the storm outside. That, and the lack of sound from Richard Castle, the born talker, has been kind of wonderful.

But there's something that's been on her mind for ages, ever since that night in the hospital after they interviewed Kyle Jennings, the reluctant zombie killer. Castle had stood outside in the corridor and made those pointed comments to her about people not forgetting horrible trauma.

He had known. He'd known that she knew what he said.

How he'd known, she still can't fathom. But suddenly, in that corridor, his childish, hurtful behaviour of the previous few weeks, his coldness, his pained looks and blasé but painful comments - they had all made sense.

He was hurting, and he was hurting because she remembered everything that had happened to her as she bled out on the vibrantly-green cemetery grass all those months ago. As he cradled her in his arms and begged her not to leave him.

"Kate...I love you. I love you Kate..."

But even then, she couldn't admit to it. She wasn't strong enough. Didn't feel safe. Didn't have the courage.

She was still behind her wall.

But that's all changed now.

Now that she's come to him and offered herself to him - ever since she made that decision to choose him over her job and her quest, she's realised that she needs to come clean. And so does he.

He's been very good at obfuscating these past couple of months. She's ashamed for a minute when she thinks her infamous reticence might have rubbed off on him a little too much; but then she remembers that Richard Castle has always been the master at presenting a flamboyant, cheeky and carefree image while hiding deep undercurrents of unspoken wants, needs, and even pain. It took her a while to figure this out, but now she has, and she's not going to let him get away with hiding things from her any more. Any more than she should hide things from him.

But... it's so hard to bring up. In her head, she's rehearsed asking this of him: gone through exactly how she'd phrase this important question. In the end, her rehearsals are all for naught, and she awkwardly blurts out the question: "How did you know?"

"Know?" He sounds truly puzzled.

"When I was...you know."

She feels rather than sees the questioning eyebrow he arches. God damn it, why is this so hard. She sighs and tries again.

"What you said to me. At Montgomery's funeral."

She feels him tense up beneath her. She raises her head and stares into his eyes. Even in the dim light, the blue of them is radiantly bright. But his expression is unreadable, which surprises and dismays her. The blank-faced, self-protective Castle, the man who caused her so much heartache in the past few weeks, the one she couldn't understand and even hated a little, is back. But she persists.

"How did you know that I...that I knew?"

She trails off, his blank face and her inability to speak clearly becoming too much.

Then, thank God, he relaxes slightly, and even chuckles. Her relief is short-lived though, as he pulls a typical Castle move and hides behind a quip. "Seems like a very 'chicken-or-egg' question."

In spite of herself, she feels that old irritation with him rise again. She pushes herself off him and glares. "Castle..." she warns, before she can stop herself. He immediately reaches out to stroke her shoulder, gently pulling her close.

"Kate...does it matter now? I mean, you're...here. I'm here. It's...it was...so good..." And now it is his turn to trail off, his eyes evading hers in a sudden panic. In spite of herself and her frustration at his evasion, she's also slightly amused that the man of so many words is suddenly tongue-tied and twisted. Regardless, she knows that they need to have this conversation. She levels a steady gaze at him.

"It matters, Rick." She sees his surprise at her use of his seldom-uttered first name. And although they both know that she's used his first name more in anger than anything else in the past, now she speaks it softly and lovingly. She uses it to get through to him. To make him realise that he shouldn't hide behind his humor, any more than she should hide behind the omission of truth.

"It matters to me. I want to know. I lied to you, and I...hurt you."

He opens his mouth, possibly to protest, but she leans towards him and silences him with a firm kiss.

"Please, let me finish," she breathes after their lips part, and if a man could look simultaneously dazed, blissful, unsure and terrified, it'd be him. He manages to croak out a timid "okay", before he shakes his head as a dog would, and with that shake his miasma seems to at least momentarily disappear. He looks at her alertly, much more like the old Castle would. As if he's trying to see inside her head.

She knows that probing look well. At the start, when he was the annoying jackass she'd been saddled with at the behest of Captain Montgomery and the Mayor, she'd just assumed he was mentally undressing her.

She assumed so many things about him. Even after she'd realised that that look was not just him trying to peer past her clothes...

He's suddenly pushing himself up against the leather bedhead, sliding on the damp sheets until he's sitting upright. He pulls her with him and she willingly follows, straddling his lap and leaning into his embrace. It occurs to her that he's still not willing to let her go, as though he's afraid that she'll jump up and run away from him. Like she's done so many times before, in so many ways. So she sinks into his broad chest, revelling in the feel of him, letting him know with her actions that she's not going anywhere.

But she still needs to know.

"Castle," she murmurs against his skin, "I know I'm not good at this. At opening up." And boy should he know – she told him that two years ago, just before he unwittingly broke her heart when his ex-wife strutted into the precinct and physically claimed him...but she's getting distracted. Again. She can feel him anticipating her, knows she's not done.

"I - I wanna start over. No secrets. There've been too many. If we do this...we wipe the slate clean." She raises her head and looks at him. His eyes are unwavering and dark. He hasn't moved. And she still can't read his expression. He looks so uncharacteristically serious, and it unnerves her slightly.

But she mentally breathes a sigh of relief when his face relaxes into a small smile, his eyes crinkling in that familiar way.

God I love it when they do that...

He places a gentle kiss on her forehead. Reaching up to slide his fingers through her damp hair, he murmurs "okay" again. Decisively.

"Okay" she repeats, smiling tentatively. And waits.

It takes him a little while. His eyes slide away to fix on the wall behind them, and he seems a little lost as to where to start.

"I heard you," he finally says. And his confession comes in fits and starts. So unlike his usual confident voice. Like every word is painful.

"In the interrogation room. During the bombing case. I was in the observation room."

Realisation dawns on her. Of course...he was there. All along.

"You told that kid...Bobby Lopez? You told him that you were shot. And that...you remembered everything."

Oh, God.

His voice hitches slightly. "I just...I couldn't deal. I couldn't...face you. I had to leave. I thought you'd lied to me because you...didn't feel the same way. And you were...embarrassed to tell me."

I'm such a damned idiot...

He's so quiet now that she can barely hear him. His voice is like the faintest breeze swiping at her cheeks. But she feels that breeze against the hot tears that slide unbidden down her cheek. And he's still not looking at her as he viciously swipes at the corner of his eye, to prevent the fall of his own tears. A typical masculine impulse, to not let the tears show. Even last night, when he was so broken and defeated, his sheer effort in refusing to cry openly in front of her was staggering.

"I... I thought that we were getting somewhere. I'd been about to confess to you, just earlier that day. To tell you... And then, to hear you say that to some suspect...I just..."

His hoarse voice trails off as he shakes his head slightly, lost in the painful memory.

"Oh, Castle..." and she kisses him gently. Cradling his face in her hands, she lets all the emotion pour out of her. Showing him through er actions that she's sorry, and that even if she can't say it to him right now, that her feelings are just as strong. That she can't even really remember how long she's loved him. It feels like it's been a lifetime.

Suddenly, like before at his door when she kissed him so desperately, he pushes her away abruptly. She gazes at him, confused, until she realises he's still in confessional mode.

"But I know now. And it's no excuse for how I acted. I was an idiot. I should've had the balls to confront you, rather than set out to...hurt you. I'm so sorry, Kate..."

And his voice, still broken, hoarse, and now angry with himself, hits her hard.

She kisses him again, tenderly, quieting him. Stroking his cheek, wiping away the single tear that has managed to break free of his tight restraint, she smiles through the kiss and her own, watery eyes. She's trying to make him smile, trying to coax him back to his normal, irrepressible state, but the weight of all the wasted time suddenly crashes down on her and she can't help but sob.

"Oh god. We both made so many mistakes," she moans, burying her face in the hollow of his neck. "So stupid. So damn stupid. So...afraid..."

She clutches his shoulders desperately, feeling them quake and knowing that his dam has finally burst too. But his tears are silent, and through his own emotion he gentles and soothes her, stroking her back, lips in her hair and on the shell of her ear, murmuring to her that it's okay, it's okay...

She's normally so tough, so strong. She takes pride in that toughness, knowing that she can take on anything. And it feels so strange to be so openly emotional in front of him, to be taking comfort from him. But so right, too. And she's self-aware enough to know that they both need this now.

And even though she thought that they need to speak, she realises that he was right. It doesn't matter now, not really. They've finally made it here. And it only took her almost dying...

He hasn't asked her about that yet. She knows he will. But it can wait.

They're quiet for what feels like an age, listening to their mutual heartbeat and the rain outside. If anything, it seems to have gotten more ferocious. Surely this will be a summer maelstrom to make the history books.

When he imagined this moment, this confessional moment, he knew it would hurt. He knew there would be tears. He just never thought that the conflicting emotions of happiness and pain would be so visceral.

Or that the words would be so hard coming out. He's a writer, for God's sake. He should be able to use words as a balm just as easily as he can use them as weapons. But when it comes to her, he's again finding that words just fail him.

And what few words he's spoken obviously haven't been that effective in reassuring her. Because just as he thinks she's calmed down, and that her teary panic is over, she pushes away and gazes at him intently.

"God, it all makes sense now. All those things you said at the tail end of that case. Sinning by silence. Cowardly. You said all that and you were so right -."

He sighs and leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers. "Hey. C'mon, we can't keep doing this. Shh..." he kisses her because he loves her, because she's so beautiful even in her current state of self-acrimony, but also because he wants her to shut up.

But she's Kate Beckett. Remarkable, maddening, challenging, frustrating. Now – more than a little frustrating; but he really can't blame her. He should have expected the emotions following their first time to be ragged and raw.

She continues thinking aloud, almost absently now, as if he were not there. Maybe that helps her get the words out.

"It was so easy, you know? Just so easy just to pretend I'd never heard you say it. To pretend that I didn't see you hurting. And the more time went on, the easier it got...but it also got so much harder to think about...let alone tell you about."

She darts her eyes back toward his, from where they'd been intently focussed on some point behind his head. Meets his eyes with a sudden shock, dismay all over her fine features.

"Oh God, Castle, what must you have thought of me..." she grates out.

He can't stand it anymore. He wishes she would just stop worrying at the half-healed wound of the torment they caused each other. It's just making it all so much more painful. And he doesn't want to see her cry again - not when it'll likely set him off again as well. Even though he's wished so much that she would be more open with him, now that he can see her in the throes of confessional sorrow he's just finding it too heartbreaking.

"Please, Kate. It's okay. I understand, okay? And really, it's all right." He cups her face in his hands, kisses her. "It's in the past. Now is not a time for sadness. It's a time for joy."

Okay, so it's clichéd and a little hackneyed, something he'd maybe expect from a novice novelist like Alex Conrad. It doesn't mean it isn't true. And with gentle kisses, caresses and whispered words, he finally calms her and she relaxes into him once again.

He stares into her eyes again, losing himself in their dark depths. He gently wipes away the tears that glisten on her cheeks, and he feels a thrill as she follows their questing with her lips, kissing his fingertips softly and reaching up one palm to press his harder into her cheek.

The sudden surge of affection he feels for this woman as she smiles at him so tenderly almost shocks him into silence.

Almost. He's also feeling hopeful. Ridiculously, wondrously happy. And cheeky. And, as her hips grind into him, suddenly horny as hell. What she does to him...

"You know, lying here beating ourselves and each other up all night about how it could have been different...well. It doesn't sound like a lot of fun. Right?"

She grins a little lop-sided grin at him. "Right," she whispers huskily. "It sounds...counter-productive." Somehow, imperceptibly, she's pressed herself closer. He almost swoons at the sensation; somehow he keeps his head and continues their banter.

"And at the very least, it's such a waste of time."

"Hm. What could we spend the time on instead, d'ya think?"

"Well...we could make it up to each other. In...other ways."

"Other ways, huh?"

"Mmmm...yeah." By now, they're ending each statement a kiss, a touch, a sigh. The blood rushes through his ears as they tease each other.

"So, writer-boy," she murmurs, running her tongue tantalisingly on the shell of his ear, "what did you have in mind?"

He growls playfully, sliding his hands down her back to grasp her hips firmly. "Well, firstly, you're so gonna pay for calling me 'writer-boy'."

"Oh, am I?"

"Oh yes. As you very well know, I'm all writer-man".

And with that, their verbal teasing ends, and the only sounds that fill the room are those of the age-old dance between two lovers. Not even the storm outside can compete.

Maybe their emotionally-charged confessions and their apologetic words fuel their passion. The tension of issues unspoken and unacknowledged. They still haven't said everything that needs to be said.

But it can wait.

It doesn't have to be like this. All we need to do is make sure we keep talking.

- Stephen Hawking