Many thanks to Sparklemouse, for providing the clarity I needed and helping me figure out where this one needed to go. She reminded me to look at the whole episode, not just the original scene. And Polly Lynn and Cartographicals, who also helped a lot. Mahalo, mes enfants.

Set in the scene mid-episode, while Kate and Castle are at her apartment working on the case.

Chapter 46: 4x1, Rise

I remember everything.

Even tonight, safe in her apartment with Castle, Kate's still trapped in the split second of staring down the barrel of that gun today.

She's never frozen like that before. Never. Not even as a rookie uniform.

She's rattled and embarrassed - and it's stupid. So stupid. She never actually saw the sniper who shot her. Never knew what was happening until the crack split her ears. And the pain split her body and she hit the ground and then Castle said -

He said the thing she's still pretending she doesn't remember, the thing that hovers in her eyes like a caption, like subtitles every time he speaks now.

After a whole summer of picturing Castle, of trying to pick just the right words and over-analyzing every moment they've spent together since the very beginning, she really thought maybe it would be okay. She thought she was ready to see him.

But even back there, on the swings, she couldn't get the words right. She talked around it. Said everything except what she needed to say: I want to be with you, Castle. Their language has always been one of subtext and metaphor, of little things that mean bigger things, and it's painfully appropriate that her verbal communication with a writer has such a heavy veneer of synecdoche.

He's here now, in her apartment, and it should feel like last year, all those times he came here. But it's not. It was easy then. Now there are things standing between them, walls and bullets and death and lies and memories he doesn't know she has, and instead of laughing with him at the table or on the couch like they used to do she's pacing, uneasy. It's all off.

And the most wrong part of all - they're talking about a case (not just a case, the case) and now he's the one saying no.

There's a weariness about him. It hurt to see at the bookstore. Standing in line, waiting to get to his table, she got to watch him, at this second booksigning of his she's attended. The first one, years ago, was so different. He was alive, alight, beaming, clever and charming. Flirting. Winking.

But this time, he was just so tired. He's older, yes. But that wasn't it. It wasn't age. It was joy. There was no joy in him.

And he's still tired. She can tell. He may be the official observer in this partnership but she's learned him just as thoroughly as he's learned her. Even after so many months, she still knows the lines around his mouth, the hold of his jaw.

She even knows the taste of his mouth, but that's not helping right now.

She tries to channel her inner, old-school Castle. The one who refuses to stop. Maybe she can restore some part of their balance. Fix it somehow. It might well be a lost cause. Whatever balance they ever had was permanently jettisoned with the words Kate, I love you.

But she tries because she doesn't know what else to do.

Castle's right, of course. Chief Halstead's record is spotless. "Multiple citations for valor, commendations from the mayor - he's literally saved dozens of people from burning buildings. It's hard to believe this guy's dirty."

"Yeah, well, we've been surprised before." Her heart constricts a little. She's thinking about Roy.

And Castle's trying. He is. Are there intersections? Is Halstead connected to Roy? To McCallister?

There aren't and the gnawing in her stomach is getting worse. There's nothing. There's no hook on this guy, no clue. It isn't that they're missing something; there just isn't anything.

Castle stops short and she knows this isn't good. "What?"

"Given his record - what if he's not our guy? What if the fire was an accident?"

"It wasn't an accident. I know it wasn't an accident."

"You can't know that."

She can't bear it, can't breathe. It's all wrong.

"I can. Because if this was an accident, then I've got nowhere to start. If this was an accident, then I've got nothing." Her throat is tight. "The guy who shot me is gone. Dick Coonan, gone. Hal Lockwood, gone. Montgomery - gone. My mom - everybody's gone, Castle."

She's cracking into pieces because it's too much and her chest hurts and it's happening again, the tightness lacing up her lungs, the splintered phantom pain that still lives in her skin.

She wipes her eyes furiously, her hands shaking. "I'm sorry." She can't get a low breath, the kind her physical therapist has been coaching her through. She's dizzy. Not centered.

"Kate -"

He shouldn't be here. She needs him gone because this is what kept happening all summer. She kept breaking. She's falling apart and she can't do this and she doesn't want him to see it happen.

And suddenly there's a fist tightening around her heart because she spent the miserable summer without him and why is she trying to get away from him again?

"Kate. It's okay. Just breathe."

He's worried about her. He doesn't see her like this. The closest to this broken he's ever seen her was the day she shot Dick Coonan in front of him and then couldn't save his life.

She's half-turned away, her face averted as she tries to pull herself together, and she feels him come to her, standing close. He touches her shoulder very gently, not intrusive, and his touch brings it all back in a rush, everything from that frenzied kiss in a dark alley to I love you, Kate.

"Kate." His voice is soft. Low. Gentle. "I'm not gone."

He's rubbing her back gently. It's no use anymore. She gives up. She crumples against him with a shuddering sob, choking, ugly noises escaping her because she misses him. He's here pulling her into his arms but she still feels trapped. Disconnected. The lie she told him in spring is still clinging to her skin, slick and oily, and the only way to scrub it off is the one thing she can't do.

"You know I'm here," he murmurs into her hair. "I want to help, Kate. Let me be here."

It sounds like I love you and it makes everything worse.

Castle must realize this is some kind of panic attack; he tugs her to the couch and sits her down, still holding her, almost shielding her body with his. She lets herself sink into him. He's warm; his shoulders are broad, and it's easy to just give in. He's so very tender, running his hand over her hair, whispering gentle things, and it's better and worse all at once.

Kate slowly trembles against him, breathing in the warmth of his cologne. It's the same cologne she smelled on him on that first case, when he asked for crime scene photos and she leaned in to try to intimidate him. She smelled it on him at that Russian poker club, as she ran her hands over his shoulders pretending to be his Ukrainian girlfriend. It swirled around her like a cloud that freezing night in the alley, the night they kissed and pretended it meant nothing. It's a warm, rich musk, but subtle. Understated. Always present. Never intrusive. Just - right.

She's overwhelmed by his warmth and his scent and the sensation of being wrapped in him and even though it's not right, she can't help herself; he's right there, so very close, and it's only the slightest movement to turn her head and kiss him very gently on the lips.

She's reaching for him, trying to recapture that what she remembers, that rich flush of their first kiss, but - it's off. It's wrong. He's not kissing her. He's pushing her away.

She sits back and her heart sinks into the pit of her stomach. His face is dark.

He's - angry?

"Kate. Stop."

Her heart is thudding in her chest. "I - I thought - you - "

She catches herself before she can let slip I thought you loved me.

"What? You think I just want to distract you?"

"No, I - "

"I don't think this is a good idea, Beckett."

Beckett hits her like a fist and she swallows hard, searching his eyes. "I didn't mean -"

"I should go."

He's standing up and walking away and it's all cold and when did it all go wrong? "Castle - Castle, wait. Please. Please."

"I told Alexis I'd meet her for dinner. I'm already running late."

Castle grabs his jacket and is shrugging it on, and she doesn't know what to say. What to do. His words are ringing in her ears again: We never talk about it. We never talk about it.

It's pressing against her chest, trapping her under the crushing weight of all the things they never talk about and the cold sting of Beckett (because Kate belongs with I love you) and she can't help herself. It comes out before she can stop it.

"Rick, I missed you."

He stops.

She sees the ripple in his shoulders as he takes a deep breath, and she knows what he's doing. He's bracing himself. She's broken him. She's finally broken him.

"Don't say that."

"Why not?"

His hands ball into fists and Kate swallows. He's a gentle man, but when he's angry, he's angry. "Why not? You ran away from me. You told me to leave and then you ignored me all summer. And now you come back and decide you want a partner again, and you tell me all about your 'walls' and how you can't be in any kind of real relationship but then it's okay to come on to me?"

"I - wasn't thinking, I didn't - "

"No, you really weren't. You didn't stop to think maybe I had trouble with this too. That maybe it hurt me when you pushed me away. And I won't let you use me. I'm not just a body to throw into your bed, Kate. I'm not Josh."

It hits her like a fist in the gut (same way you hide in these nowhere relationships with men you don't love) and it wouldn't hurt nearly so much if it weren't at least a little bit true. But maybe this is what she needed anyway. At least he's talking.

"I'm not trying to use you."

"Then what is this? You want distance. But then you kiss me." He lets out a mirthless laugh. "Your signals are getting a little mixed, Beckett."

She's trying to sift through all the mixed signals crossing her own mind (I was scared and I didn't mean to hurt you and I got shot, Castle) when her mind flickers to another moment. The end of a summer. Footsteps coming to her desk, and then the only two words that could fix it.

"I'm sorry."

He freezes. He wasn't expecting that. She's not entirely certain she was, either. "What?"

Kate takes a breath, curling her hands around the edge of the couch behind her. "I'm sorry."

He just sort of - deflates. His shoulders slump, and she can almost see the angry energy draining from him. It just leaves him looking worn. Weary. Defeated. Her hands ache to smooth and touch and comfort, and she has to remind herself not to.

He doesn't say anything. She makes herself keep going. "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you, Castle."

He just looks so forlorn, standing there with love spilling out of his eyes and hopelessness written on his face. "Kate. I wanted to help you."

"I know," she murmurs, and for a long moment she thinks about it. About the miserable summer, the nights she woke up and turned her face into the pillow to muffle her crying. About how it might have been different if he'd been there to hear her. "I'm sorry."

Kate can see he's chewing on something else, something he clearly isn't sure how to phrase, and it might be I said something to you when you got shot or maybe it's you just kissed me and I pushed you away but neither is a comfortable topic sentence.

"Castle - what happened, just now - " she takes a deep breath, coming closer to him, step by step - "I wasn't trying to - to push you. I didn't mean -"

"I know." His voice is softer.

"I'm glad you're here," she says quietly. And I know you love me, her mind whispers. "If - Castle, if I could go back, change it -"

"I know."

Her throat is getting tight with all the things she wants to say, but he glances at his watch. "I really should go - Alexis is waiting. Are you okay?"

She nods, because there's actually no real answer to that question.

"If something happens, call me."

She doesn't want him to leave but she has to let him go. "I will."

He nods, and hesitates for just a moment before opening the door. She wants him to hug her.

It shuts behind him and Kate lets out a shuddering breath. Idiot. Idiot. She couldn't control herself.

But at least they talked.

It's still not right between them. But she thinks maybe it's a little less wrong.

Half an hour later, after hesitating a half-dozen times, she pulls out her phone, typing him a quick text message. I needed the push.

His reply arrives within a minute.

I'm glad you let me in.