Kate wakes feeling fuzzy on a couch she doesn't know. It takes her a moment until she remembers where she is. Ireland. Castle. She's pregnant and he doesn't want to talk to her. And she can't blame him for it. Overwhelmed she lays a hand over her eyes, tries to gather herself, to think about her next steps, when she catches up with the voices next door that probably woke her.

"Yeah, well, I guess, we'll never know because there'll always be the baby now, will it? And for me, that's all that matters." Her breath is stuck in her chest when she listens to his bitter voice, cursing herself for being so stupid to just blurt out the pregnancy before she could explain anything else. How can she convince him now that it's not only about the baby for her? Did the baby push her? Hell yes, it did. Without the baby, she still probably still wouldn't have called. Would've waited until next year when he'd be back in town and maybe, if she'd been courageous enough, tried again then. But she's sure she would've given up when he rejected her like that.

With the baby, she can't. Or rather, she doesn't want to. She wants to do this with him. With him fully involved.

He storms into the room, the dumps the dishes clattering in the sink, the loud noise making her flinch. Slowly she rises from the couch, looks into the open kitchen right behind her. He's standing right there, right before her, and not even paying attention. Lost in his thoughts. His finger pinches the bridge of his nose, then he grips the edges and lets his head fall. He looks so defeated, her heart aches for him, wants to soothe him, wants to tell him, that everything will be okay, that she's sorry. That she wants this with him and nobody else and not only because of the baby. But they barely know each other, she made sure of that, always kept him far enough away from her that it didn't get too personal, that her almost a decade-old feelings for him didn't interfere with the work and her life.

She gets up, rounds the couch to get into the kitchen. He's still standing there, knuckles white, his whole body shaking from adrenaline – or is he crying? She can't see it. With her hand reached she nears him without thinking, touches his back, lets her hand slide over it up to his shoulder, tries to comfort him, give him something to ease his pain, to do something to soften the blow she gave him earlier with her announcement.

Her panicked reaction to the positive test, her running circles in the morgue because she lost it, still fresh on her mind. She's still pretty freaked out. His body tenses up under her touch and she hurries to speak, hurries to not lose him again, to make him see

"I'm sorry, Castle. I'm really sorry. If it soothes your mind: I'm freaking out as well. This is not how I would've pictured the beginning of our relationship–" He huffs, shakes his head and her heart breaks.

"What relationship, Beckett? You made it pretty clear that you were not interested in one with me. Trust me, I got the message." He turns on his heels and walks away, leaving her heart shattered in pieces.

"Castle, wait," she runs after him, trying to untangle the mess. "I made a mistake, okay? I freaked. Doesn't mean that the night was a mistake because it wasn't!" The dagger runs deeper and deeper into his heart, taking his breath away, his whole body aching with the pain she causes him.

"Yeah, that's why you threatened to kill me when I talk about it. Just leave me alone, Beckett. Please. I can't do this right now. You should eat something, it's no longer just you." The door closes before her face, almost hitting her nose and she stands rooted to the spot.

If she had her gun she might've shot herself on the spot for being so stupid, for having behaved like the biggest fool there is.

How could she have been so brutal to him? He tried so hard to talk to her, tried to hold her back at his apartment, tried to call her for hours, showed up at the precinct, and solved her case while he was waiting for her to talk to her, proving to her that their night means more to him that this text might've implied. But she couldn't see it, was too hurt, too fragile, too careful that she completely shut him out. And on top of it all, she allowed Demming proximity, she forbade Castle at every opportunity and even let him kiss her right before his eyes.

She was worse than him. Why should he listen to her? Why should he even believe a word she speaks about relationships, love, and them? Not when she messed up on so many different levels. Running away, shutting him out, betraying what was between them, staying silent when it mattered most to speak up, and only starting to call when she found out that she really had to and on top of it all – tell him about the pregnancy first.

How should he think of anything other than the baby? How could he believe that she was here for him when she so clearly told him otherwise with her actions? She messed up so hard, probably ruined the best thing that ever happened to her, and set it on fire as well. Talk about crash and burn. She did worse.

How can she ever fix it? She hurt him so bad and he won't even as much as look at her.

"Rick", his name comes out in a broken mess of her voice, she only registers then that she cries, that she sobs. She blames the hormones, she never cried so easily, or at least not in front of others. Her hand lies on the warm wood, she lets her head fall against it.

That he slammed the door in her face feels heavier than shutting her out, more as if he closed the door on them, on their future.

Her finger traces the antic carving in the door. He's just behind that door, just there on the other side while she is here on the wrong side. She knows she should give him time. She knows she owes him that much. But she's too scared to give him the time. Too scared he'd completely close up to her. That she'll never have the chance to make amends with him. She knows how easy it is to lock one's own heart away and never let anybody back in again. She did it too after her mother's death.

He's the only one who found a way inside. But he already was in there with his words, his magic to distract her and make her life lighter with only his presence. He's been in there for ten years with his books before she met the person.

That's not the case for her. She's not an author. She was just his muse before he moved on. And now she's the woman who promised him, she was sure about them, about their night, only to run scared and burn every bridge the next day, threatening to kill him, if he ever spoke about that again and kissed another guy hours later right before his eyes.

She needs to find a way to rebuild all these bridges. And if she will make up for that mistake for the rest of her life.

Slowly, she slides down the door to the floor, leans sideways against the wood, closes her eyes, imagining he's sitting right there on the other side, her finger still tracing the carving as if she could wander over his face.

"I'm sorry I didn't call, Castle. Tell me, what you need to trust me that it's not just about the Baby. I'm here because of you as well." She sucks at this. She sucks at relationships. At talking over feelings. At apologizing. It's easier to run away, to hide so she doesn't get hurt in the process.

The door swings open, causing her to fall to the ground with a shriek, right at Castle's socked feet. He didn't move a finger to help her on her feet again, so it must be bad. With burning cheeks she slowly gets up, leans against the door frame in support, not trusting her legs.

"I need you to leave, Beckett. Go back to New York, go back to Demming. You don't want to do this with me. I promise you, I'll take care of you and the baby, I'll be there for you both if it's mine. But I can't do this right now." Searing heat flames up in her at his words.

"If it's yours?!" She pushes off the frame, her hands at her hips, her eyes fiercely locked in his, coming as close to him as their noses could meet. She's shorter than him without her heels, but she doesn't care. "If it's yours?! Are you kidding me? Of course, it's yours! What do you think of me? That I jump every guy who shows interest in me?"

"As far as I know, yes." The resounding slap she gave him echoes in the room, only superseded by his huff as he slowly turns his head back to her, swipes a drop of blood from his lip. She feels sorry for hurting him, but she's too angry to let it show, and he did deserve it.

"You are a jerkass, Richard Castle. You're the one with a young woman in your home! You're the one who only wanted to get me out of your system so you could finally accept that stupid offer."

"Jealous, Beckett?" He throws back, raises an eyebrow, a smug grin on his bleeding lips, completely absorbed in his jackass playboy persona. But it hurts her that he doesn't even try to deny it. Did she fool herself into believing that there was more to him? That their night really meant something to him? Or maybe it was exactly the way it seemed to be?

"Did you sleep with her?" Her voice is barely more than a whisper, brittle and thin like paper.

"What if I did?" Words so cold and calculated they make her double over, drain every energy and warmth from her body, leaving her trembling and empty, a pained gasp escapes her. Her shaking hand finds her abdomen on its own, softly pressing against the still flat spot where the baby grows. How could she be so stupid? How could she believe that it really meant something to him? That it was as important to him as it was to her?

"Beckett? Kate!" Before she can answer him, he's grabbing her arms, hovering over her, worried about her. "Are you okay? Is something with the baby?"

This time it's her turn to huff as she yanks herself free. "Don't touch me", she growls, straightening up again, gritting her teeth, meeting Castle's eyes – wide with worry and sorrow and she softens. "I'm okay."

"I didn't sleep with her. Her Nanna owns this house, usually rents it with herself as housekeeper, but she broke her foot last week, so Rosie stepped in, the minute she heard that her favorite author rented it to write his next book. I'm sorry about what I said. I don't think you're that type of woman, Kate. I know it's mine."

"Of course it's yours. Only your baby is cocky enough to force itself on me." That makes him laugh, a sound that has her heart soaring after all the pain the past weeks. Maybe not all is lost.

"Yeah, I guess, you're right." They both stay silent after that, neither of them sure how to proceed from there, how to not hurt their fragile state any further.

"I'm sorry," they suddenly say simultaneously, making them chuckle but leaving them then in awkward silence again.

"Have you eaten?", is all he asks, and her heart sinks, she was hoping for more, for an open conversation – even though she'd probably suck at it – for a step forward. But maybe it is one, even if it feels as if it's just another way to shut her out by taking care of her. "You need to eat, Beckett. Come one." He places his hand on her small back, sending warm waves through her body that feel way too good, and guides her back down into the kitchen.

"You don't need to take care of me, Castle. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

He snorts. "Yeah, that I can see. Have you eaten at least anything in the past weeks or even slept? You lost weight. Or are you nauseous a lot? I remember that Meredith was nauseous all the time and gave me hell for it."

"No, I'm fine most of the time, I think. And yes, I have eaten. Sometimes, I'm nauseous, and other times, I suddenly get an attack of hunger and eat a lot." Castle sighs in relief as he fixes her a plate full of the way too intense-smelling stew, but she won't tell him now. It'll only make him worry more.

"Okay, that's good I guess?" He carries her plate to the couch, puts it on the little side table, and tends to the fire, busying himself with some logs and picking at the ashes.

"Do you even know what you're doing there?" She asks, after she can't take the helpless fumbling at the fire any longer.

"Hah, of course I do." He fakes a smug laugh, trying to look professional but fails miserably.

"No, you don't." She states, knowing how to tend to a fire from the fireplace in her father's cabin.

"No, I don't," he admits with a sigh, giving up and letting the fire be, looking around, before picking up his laptop and sitting down in an armchair by the fire, far away from her.

"How's your favorite British agent doing?" She asks to distract herself from her worry and the suddenly roaring nausea, picking in her food. Castle sighs.

"Miserable, to be honest. Haven't written a word yet." He stares into the flames, not sharing any more insight and she has to squeeze her eyes shut, her stomach rolling, rebelling against the few crackers she nibbled on the flight and the intensive smell of the deliciously looking stew. Ugh, she should not be thinking about food, it only makes it worse. She tries to concentrate on keeping it down, on willing the turning of her stomach to stop but it only gets even worse.

She quickly puts the still full plate on the sidetable, the clatter and sloshing alarming Castle, but she's already up and running for the sink to empty her stomach. He's right at her side, holding her hair, drawing soothing circles on her back as she heaves and heaves and heaves until her throat is burning and her stomach hurting. With a disgusted, exhausted sigh, she beds her hot head on the cool marble, leans her whole weight on the counter, not trusting her legs, as Castle wets a small towel and presses it in her neck, weaves an arm around her waist, holding her up, probably seeing the trembling of her legs.

"So, this is what you meant with sometimes you eat, sometimes you're nauseous?"

"Ugh. Pretty much", she mumbles.

"So, you haven't really eaten," he sighs, but it's worried, defeated, not reproachful and she only grunts something in response, still too nauseous and exhausted to make real conversation. "Can you walk over to the couch?"

"Uh-uh. Wanna stay here, Cassle," she slurs, pressing herself harder into the cool marble that soothes the hotness of her skin and somehow calms the nausea, or maybe its the towel. "you can go, dunna stay wi'me." He chuckles softly, the sound jolting through her body, making her heart ache in longing and despair. She craves their normal relationship from before so much, craves his lighthearted, open self from their night together, but she can feel that he's closed up, that he's distant even though she can feel his touches, she can't feel him. Because that is how I raised my son, Marthas voices wafts through her mind.

He draws his hands back, making sure she's stable enough to stand on her own, and she instantly misses the warm touch of his hand, but aches for honest touches because he wants not because he feels obliged. For a moment, she fears, he's going, really leaving her alone, but he's busying himself cutting some ginger and setting up hot water for tea.

She's not sure if it's better or worse than the yelling and ruff rejection. It's feels worse because now, she has no idea what he thinks or feels, he completely shut her out.