CONTENT WARNING: References to suicide.

A Warmth Goes Through Her Veins

"Got something!" he hollers, jogging down the front path with a pair of ratty neon green high tops.

"Where'd you find those?"

"Our waitress said these have been in her work locker forever, but they're clean and everything."

"I told you I can walk in my heels."

"And run the risk of injury? I'm not letting any stray potholes or faulty infrastructure thwart my plans for you."

She shakes her head, biting back a smile, and sits on a nearby wrought iron bench styled with a rose pattern to shuck off her stilettos, suddenly grateful that she and Lanie got mani-pedis together the day before.

Just as she holds her hand out for the shoes, he bends down on one knee.

Her heart freezes.

"Can I—?" he motions with the footwear and she cocks an eyebrow, skeptical and a little cautious.

"You want to put my shoes on for me?" She leans forward and whispers, "Is this a foot fetish thing?"

"No, no," he chuckles. "Just a chivalry thing."

She rolls her eyes, a small smile curving at the corner of her mouth.

"You're really milking this fairytale bit."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He slips one shoe on before she can protest, his touch gentle and warm and firm. Then the other… "Would you look at that? A perfect fit." He grins, lopsided. "Must be fate."

She puffs a laugh, "You're ridiculous, you know that?" And pulls him in for a long and deep kiss, so ridiculously in love with him.

"I used to have ice skates in this color."

She teeters on the edge of the Bethesda Fountain like a gymnast on a balance beam. Castle offers his hand for stability and support as she walks forward, the mahogany handle of a slim black umbrella hooked on the bend of his elbow.

"Oh, I have to see you in action sometime."

The ledge isn't high up, maybe a few feet off the ground, but she takes his hand, enjoying the feel of his strong and thick fingers wrapped around hers, a girlish giddiness spreading wings in her chest.

"Trust me, it's not pretty."

"I highly doubt that."

She rolls her eyes with a small grin and motions at the statue of an angel in the middle of the fountain. "Did you know a woman sculpted her?"

The writer nods.

"Emma Stebbins. She was the first woman to receive a commission for a major public work in New York City, and she was also part of a collective of lesbian artists who called themselves the female jolly bachelors."

She smiles. "You really know your history."

"I used to come here and write. People watch and observe. And well," he tilts his head at the angel, "I had to know her story."

"And?"

Much as she pretends to be exhausted by his seemingly endless chatter, she secretly loves listening to him talk, tell stories, and rattle off fun facts, always entranced by the depth of his knowledge and the way he lights up with a fiery passion.

"She's known as Angel of the Waters," he begins eagerly, "And Stebbins created her to celebrate the opening of an aqueduct that supplied fresh water to the city, which was sorely needed at the time. This was back in the 1840s and they previously had an unsafe water supply plagued by infectious diseases. The fountain is named after Bethesda, a magical pool mentioned in the Bible that cured anyone of whatever disease once they stepped in its waters. The lily in the angel's hand represents rebirth and resurrection and the four figures below her are supposed to be Peace, Health, Purity, and Temperance."

"So this is a healing fountain, huh?" she observes. "Too bad it's empty."

Some of the big fountains in the city were drained of water during the winter to prevent frozen pipes.

"Spring is coming right around the corner," he comments. The clouds rumble above just then and he grins.

"Sooner than we might think."

Fog rolls in around them, lamp light glowing through the misty haze as they stroll hand-in-hand down paved path of the Mall, a wide promenade lined by park benches and majestic trees. The branches arc overhead like the vaulted ceilings of a cathedral; lover's arms intertwining with each other.

The place is a popular thoroughfare for tourists, street artists, and pedestrians, but now, in the shade of night, there's no one else around.

Some might consider it a little eerie or spooky, but she finds the whole scene enchanting, something about it reminding her of Mary Poppins. She half expects the magical nanny to float down from the sky and Dick Van Dyke to pop out of the gloom with a gaggle of chimney sweeps, clicking their heels together and humming chim chim cher-ee.

But there's no surprise musical number. Just a quiet peace and serenity; their own little bubble, palms sealed together.

He gently squeezes her fingers. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

She laughs a little. "Since when do you ask permission to ask questions?"

He puffs an wry chuckle and cups a hand around his nape; one of his nervous tics.

"It's just…you here with me, like this, it's all so surreal." He pauses, contemplative. "And I don't want to break the spell by opening my stupid mouth, but I've been wondering since last night…what changed?"

Her brow crinkles with a frown. "What do you mean?"

He drops his hand from hers and her chest tightens, the strings of her heart tensing.

"There's always a story. Always a chain of events that makes everything make sense. Take you for example. Under normal circumstances, you should not be here. A successful and classy and beautiful woman like you doesn't belong with a good-for-nothing scoundrel like me. And yet, here you are. Why?"

The strings loosen.

Oh, Castle.

"Rick—"

But he bulldozes forward.

"All the time I've known you, I've hoped…wished for more, but I wasn't sure you saw me in that way. Or really saw me at all. I thought you were more likely to break one of my limbs than be caught dead in any sort of relationship with me. You know, because I'm just a rake and a has-been. I mean, let's face facts, I'm not exactly your usual type and none of this makes sense on paper."

She huffs. "Are you done?"

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and hangs his head morosely.

"You're right." He snaps his gaze to hers, eyes wide. "I usually go for the safe and boring and by-the-book type. For guys who don't care if I spend more time at the precinct than with them. For guys who always put work first." Understanding slowly dawns on his face. "And I liked that because I always put work first, too. It gave me an opportunity to keep one foot out the door just in case."

"But with one foot out the door, it's hard to know where you stand."

She nods. "When my doctor boyfriend proposed, I had this epiphany that we were too much alike. And not in a good way. And last night…" She reaches for him, looping her arms around his neck, needing him close, needing him to really hear her, "...last night I had another epiphany—I realized I've been chasing after the wrong things and holding myself back from what I really want."

She tenderly swipes the pad of her thumb over his lips and more words spill from her like the rush of water from a broken dam.

"When my mom was killed and my dad lost himself in the bottle, I lost hope. I hated the world. I hated everyone in it. And at one point, I stopped believing in anything good. Because every day in my job, I saw the bad; the worst of humanity. I stopped believing in fairytales and fate and magic and I didn't think I'd ever be more than my past." She flicks her eyes to his, her heart galloping wildly. "But you're the first person to dare me to believe in the good again. Who showed me that I can be more than who I am. You gave me my hope back."

He looks at her in stunned awe and disbelief.

"So you can cut out the pity party crap because when I look at you…" She traces his jaw, "I see the most remarkable…maddening…challenging…frustrating person I've ever met." She tugs on his earlobes. "And maybe we don't make sense on paper, but we don't live our lives on paper...and well, you looked pretty damn good in that suit last night."

"I knew it was the suit," he triumphs.

She giggles.

He gazes at her with a tender expression. Very, very tender. Her heart pounds.

"Kate…you, I—"

"Will you just kiss me already?"

He grins and crashes it against her mirroring one.

The moment their lips meet, the sky finally rips open and rainwater cascades through the ceiling of branches, the downpour like a baptism.

They break apart breathlessly.

"You know, ever since that Spider-Man movie, the Tobey Maguire one, I've wanted to kiss a girl in the rain."

She laughs, "You've never kissed someone in the rain before?"

"Well, no. Have you?"

"Actually…" She thinks. "No, I haven't." She rises on her toes with a smile, "Must be fate," and dives in for another kiss, slaking her thirst with fresh water, sipping and drinking from the fountain of his mouth, a healing fountain of spring and hope and resurrection.

The door light blinks red.

"Damn it," Castle growls. She leans against the wall and watches him wipe the keycard on his pant leg before he jams it into the lock again.

It beeps an error sound; blinks red once more.

"C'mon!" he yells, frustration peeling off him in waves. They'd stumbled into the luxury hotel soaked to the bone, their sides splitting with laughter because they'd been splashed horrendously by a cab, only for their umbrella to be blown inside out and stolen by the wind.

And they were so caught up in each other that they didn't see the bellhop and his incoming luggage cart before it was too late.

The collision had left them both with bruised limbs and dignities.

Then the check-in process had been tortuously long and during their elevator ride, they'd been packed like sardines with other patrons. Apparently, some big event was happening. A fancy socialite wedding, judging by the comically large hats blocking their view of each other.

There'd also been the food tray the writer tripped over three doors down.

And now the key wasn't working.

The obstacles just kept piling up.

"I didn't think it would be so difficult getting you into bed," she says after his third failed attempt with the lock.

Castle groans a laugh as his head thunks onto the door.

"This is a nightmare actually, isn't it? I'm only wearing my underwear and I'm failing a test, aren't I?"

She shakes her head, amused.

"I don't know about any test, but I wouldn't mind if you were only wearing your underwear. In fact—" She pushes off the wall and slips the keycard from his grasp, her lips grazing his ear with a seductive whisper, "I'd like to make that a definite reality."

She flips the card over and slowly inserts it into the lock bay. After a brief, weighted moment, there's a welcome snick and the light flashes green.

She pushes the door open with a smirk.

Inside, the lavish suite is bedecked with an extravagant meadow of flowers and bathed in candlelight.

She fights a smile and lifts an eyebrow at him.

"Not presuming, huh?"

"Would you rather I didn't pre-order the champagne?"

She rolls her eyes, grinning, and then bites her lip.

"You know, right now, I'd much rather not be talking."

She slams him into the door, shutting them both closed as her mouth covers his, hot and wet and rough, finally letting his hand reach under her hem and up, up, up her thigh, her need for him coiling tighter and tighter, the fire on her skin, conflagrating into a raging inferno.

His fingers curl at just the right angle and she snaps, thunder claps, and the flames engulf her whole, the world whiting out around her.

She splashes cold water onto her face, but it does little to combat the molten lava burning through her body and flushing her a deep scarlet.

She'd never fallen apart like that before…so without abandon, so consumed by passion.

She needed a moment to recover; freshen up. The ensuite bathroom is full of white and gold-flecked marble and gilded mirrors. She wipes the rest of her make-up off with a soft and fluffy hand cloth and tears the sanitary paper packaging off the complimentary comb. She runs the hair tool through her rainswept hair, untangling wet knots and smoothing damp curls.

It's a comforting act, as if she's regaining a little more control of herself. When she spots the hair dryer, she decides to plugs it in and soon her damp strands are transformed into dry waves. She styles them in a dramatic side part with the ends curling up off her shoulders, reminiscent of a 60s do. Something like Anne Bancroft in The Graduate.

Maybe it's silly to fix her appearance, but now that she's bare-faced and bare-footed, she's more exposed and she could use at least one layer of armor. Something to ground herself.

No one has turned her into a puddle the way he has, all shaking and quivering.

Fuck.

She clutches the edge of the sink and inhales, long and deep. Exhales slowly.

For all her cool confidence, she's just as terrified as he is, just as nervous and insecure, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the spell to break.

He's been so open and honest and vulnerable with her and she still hasn't told him the truth—the whole story of how he got shot. He deserves the whole story, the entire chain of events that led them to now, but she doesn't want to put another obstacle in their path.

She thinks of Josh and why she didn't accept his ring.

They'd been fighting about Haiti again. He'd been called for another Doctors Without Borders mission. Months long, this time. She didn't know if she could handle the distance, but he said he was prepared to commit to her and proved it by popping the question.

But before she could give her answer, she got a call about her training officer, Royce. He'd been shot in the head and the next few days had been a whirlwind. She went rogue and ran off to L.A. to catch his killer, raining hell.

It had been bittersweet when she'd handcuffed the son of a bitch who put a bullet through her mentor.

Royce had left a letter for her and she must've read the last paragraph a thousand times.

And now for the hard part, kid. Putting the job ahead of your heart is a mistake. It's clear you deserve something real, but you're afraid to be happy. You deserve to be happy. Risking our hearts is why we're alive and the last thing you want is to look back on your life and wonder, if only.

Josh was always going to prioritize saving lives and she couldn't compete with that. She wanted someone who could be there for her and she could be there for him. Just dive into it together.

But if she's going to dive in with Castle, if they're going to have something real, something with true emotional intimacy, she has to face her fears and be open and honest and vulnerable with him.

She removes her jewelry, leaving the pearl earrings and necklace on the vanity like she's laying down her shields.

And heads into confession.

The blaze in the ornate fireplace in the middle of the room crackles loudly.

The writer had moved the coffee table to make space on the plush rug and he's leaning against the elegant sofa, wrapped in a fluffy robe with navy silk boxers poking out through the slit, his drenched clothes drying out on the fireplace screen, his hair pushed back and disheveled. Her handiwork, she notes with a pleased smile to herself, arousal pooling low in her belly.

Jesus, did he have to look so sexy and deliciously rumpled?

He offers her a flute of champagne. "A hit of the bubbly?"

She accepts it and knocks back the entire glass.

"Woah, Nelly," he jokes.

She blushes and hands the empty container back to him.

"More?"

She shakes her head and he sets it aside as she tucks the bouncy tulle of her skirt beneath her and sits next to him.

"Nervous?" he asks gently, brushing a thumb over the bone of her cheek. Her eyes slam shut, the sensation of his touch overwhelming her.

"I need to tell you something," she whispers softly.

"You're not wearing a bra, either, are you?"

A surprised snort escapes her and the tension drains from her shoulders. Her eyes open to his crooked grin and can't help but lean forward and kiss him. He opens for her like a flower and she plunges her tongue inside, tangling with his, hot and slick, the fervency of the kiss blooming all too fast and she faintly recalls, this wasn't the plan.

"Wait, wait, wait." She pulls back. "Before we go any further, we need to talk—put all cards on the table."

He blinks, a little whiplashed, but nods. "Okay."

She stares down at her lap, unable to look him in the eye, her heart in her throat.

"There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just gonna say it…but it's - it's about your shooting."

There's a horrifying beat of silence and she forgets how to breathe.

"My shooting? What about it?"

"Do you, uh, remember anything from that case? Those few days? Anything at all?"

"No, total blank. Why?"

She picks at her dress skirt.

"Well, I have a pretty outlandish theory that might explain your missing time."

"You? Outlandish theory? You're messing with the natural order again."

She flashes him a wan smile.

"Can you just listen, please?"

He tips her chin up.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with an ancient Incan artifact and alternate universes, would it?"

Shock bursts in her chest and ripples through her entire body, her mouth falling agape.

"You know."

"That I got hijacked by a version of myself from a parallel world? Oh, yeah. I've been all over that since my mother and daughter mentioned it in the hospital."

"Since…" She doesn't know how to process this. He's known this whole time?

She suspected he might've known, but hearing it out loud and having actual confirmation feels strange. Like…everything between them is based on a lie.

"And we were supposed to have met seven years ago. At the book party for my last Derrick Storm novel. On this exact date actually. March 9th. Your hair was short then."

How the hell…? And then it hits her.

Mr. Castle, let's just say for a moment that you and I did meet each other. Where would that have been?

At my book party. You came to me. You asked me to consult on a copycat murder. It was six years ago. Your hair was short then. It was adorable.

"You watched the interrogation tape."

"Yeah, I bribed the boys for it."

Hurt slices through her. He went behind her back?

"Why didn't you come to me?"

"There never seemed like a right time to bring it up, and what with you being such a skeptic, I wasn't even sure you believed in the possibility of it all. I didn't want to seem like a raving mad man and give you an excuse to kick me out of the precinct."

How can she trust him? How can she trust anything that he says?

You lied, too, her brain supplies and the sting of betrayal lessens. She was equally at fault, wasn't she? Just as much to blame. But it doesn't erase the sick feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. Doesn't prevent the raising of her defensive hackles.

"Were you ever planning on telling me you knew?"

"I don't know. The more time I spent with you, the more afraid I was of losing you. And after a while, I convinced myself that it wouldn't matter if I told you, that it wasn't really important. It was selfish of me. I'm sorry."

Her hackles lower, the sick feeling dissipating slightly. His reasons for holding back aren't unsimilar to her own.

"It's okay. I'm sorry, too. I could've said something sooner." But a question nags at her. "It's just…is this why you wanted to shadow me? To get the whole story? Is that all this was? Some scheme?"

He loves me. He loves me not.

His eyes widen in panic. "God, no," he rushes out. "I mean, it was part of it, wanting to find answers, but mostly I just wanted to get to know you. I thought maybe if another version of me was in a relationship with someone like you, or you know, another you, then it meant that I could change. That I could be more than who I was. And maybe I could be someone who was worthy enough for you. My you."

That's actually…really sweet. The sick feeling vanishes completely and a pleasant warmth goes through her veins instead, spreading to the ends of her fingers and toes. He loves me.

"Oh, so I'm yours now, huh?" she teases.

"I—well, I didn't mean like I own you or anything, that you belong to me. I just—"

"Castle, relax. I know what you meant," she soothes with a hand over his. "And I get it." She feathers a finger over his knuckles. "I think I didn't say anything earlier because I didn't want to screw up our friendship and talking about this would've forced a conversation about what we are to each other and...I didn't want some other versions of ourselves to dictate what we were supposed to be or how we were supposed to feel." She finds his gaze. "I wanted what we have to be ours and not theirs, you know?"

"Yeah," he smiles. "I do." He tangles their fingers together. "And in the interest of putting all cards on the table, there's something else I need to tell you. Something you should know about me before we go any further."

Her heart rate races, but she calmly replies, "Okay."

He takes a shuddering breath and begins.

"Before I met you, I felt pretty worthless. I was a failure as a father, a son, a writer. And truth be told, a pretty poor excuse for a man. I couldn't find real connection with anyone. It was just one meaningless fling after the other. And I was so incredibly lonely. Eventually, I wondered if there was any point in going on…and on the day I got hijacked, I was actually…" he trails off. "Maybe I shouldn't be saying this. It's not exactly normal first date material."

She puffs a small, ironic laugh. "This hasn't exactly been a normal first date."

His lips lift a little.

"Hey, you can talk to me," she urges softly, palming his cheek. "All in, remember?"

His eyes steel with resolve, and he continues.

"Just before I got hijacked, possessed, whatever…I was about to jump into the Hudson River because I thought I was better off…not here anymore."

Her heart stops and she says the first inane thing that pops into her head.

"Why the Hudson?"

"Less trafficked. Less chance of witnesses."

"Wow," she deadpans on impulse. "You must've been really depressed if New Jersey was going to be the last thing you saw."

He chokes a surprised laugh. "Should I have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge?"

"And be a total cliché?"

"Forgive me if my suicide attempt was too pedestrian for you," he chuckles.

Her eyes expand in alarm and she covers her mouth. "I'm so sorry. That was totally insensitive. I just meant—"

"No, no, it's okay. I know what you meant."

"It was cop instinct, I—"

"Kate," he huffs in amusement. "You're having a much better reaction than my family did. And frankly, I appreciate the gallows humor. It's not like I haven't made an inappropriate joke at a crime scene before. And it's a relief that we can laugh about it a little."

But it is so not a laughing matter. Her eyes burn with tears as she encases him in her arms and buries her face in his neck, needing to feel him, the beat of his heart; make sure he's really there. To think she almost lost him…

"Are you okay now?" she whispers.

He strokes her hair. "Yeah, I've been seeing someone."

She quickly extracts herself from him, her pulse racing. "What?"

"A shrink. I've been seeing a shrink," he placates.

Oh. She pushes a fist into his shoulder. "Don't scare me like that."

He catches her fist and kisses the clenched fingers, chuckling, "Sorry."

She sniffles and adjusts the collar of his robe. "When did you start?"

"When I was still in the hospital, the Chief of Detectives visited me."

"Roy?"

He nods. "We used to play poker way back. And well, he asked if there was anything the NYPD could do to aid in my recovery. Said they had the best trauma counselors on hand and whatnot."

He wipes the silent tears tracking down her face.

"It's in my nature to avoid introspection, but I realized I'd been given a second chance and I needed to take a hard look at myself, so I took him up on his offer and started seeing someone. I was on a bunch of pain pills and antidepressants can react unpredictably with other medicines, so my psychiatrist, Dr. Burke, focused on encouraging alternative options like exercise and regular talk therapy sessions."

He pauses for a moment.

"I started writing again. Gave up my usual vices and mended fences with my mother and daughter. But even with all the positive growth, I was afraid of falling into old habits. So once I was done with my physical therapy, Dr. Burke suggested a change in routine and the next day, I walked into your precinct."

"Do you still go to appointments?"

"I used to go two, three times a week, but I've scaled back recently to just once. He's been helping me lately to try and work up the courage to ask you out."

She smiles and he ducks his head, bashful.

"Look, um, if this is too much, if this changes anything for you and you need to leave, I'd understand."

"Do you want me to leave?"

He doesn't respond.

"Hey, look at me." She tips his chin up. "I'm exactly where I want to be. And it's not too much. I know that was a hard thing to say out loud, but I'm glad you told me. And I'm especially glad you're still here."

"You're okay with this?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

She quiets and reaches out to wipe the silent tears tracking down his face.

"My first three years on the force, I put everything into the job; trying to take care of my dad, but I didn't really care about myself. I would barely eat or sleep. One time, I got my shoulder dislocated while taking down a suspect, and I was put on temporary leave. My T.O. thought I was pushing myself too hard and wanted me to take a break. My dad was off on some bender, so I didn't have anything to focus on except the pain I always pushed down. And I just couldn't take it anymore. I felt like I'd failed my mom, my dad, and myself." She looks at him. "They'd prescribed me Vicodin for my injury," she says. "I swallowed the whole bottle."

His eyes flare with empathy and something intense and indefinable that sets her heart aflutter.

"I woke up in the hospital. My dad had come home just in time and found me. After that, I got help. And so did he. It took a few more years for his sobriety to stick, but that moment got us both to see that we couldn't just push through the grief alone." She hooks her hands with his. "So if you have thoughts like that again, I want you to be able to talk to me. Or Dr. Burke. Just don't be afraid to ask for help, okay? I kind of like having you around. I mean, who else is going to make me coffee?"

He chokes on a chuckle. "You really are extraordinary, you know that?" he rasps.

She grins, "Back at ya," and meets him for a sweet kiss, soft and slow and everything. The calm after the storm.

He pulls away suddenly and her heart stumbles.

"It's just…how can you be so sure?"

Silly man. He still doesn't get it, does he?

The truth pours out of her; sloughs off her tongue—clear and plain and simple.

"Because I love you, Rick."