My nightmares are usually about losing you. I'm okay once I realize you're here.

- Suzanne Collins

"Beckett!"

She's on the grass, her body limp, clothes soaked through. Her hair is wet and splayed out beneath her, framing her face as if she's asleep.

He's yelling, shaking her, pleading with her to wake up.

Just wake up. She has to wake up.

She didn't take a bullet to the heart just to drown. She didn't survive a locked freezer and a bomb in her apartment to die like this.

"Kate, please," he begs, his voice betraying him, his vision hazy. "No! Come on, Kate!"

She doesn't move. He's just as soaked, damp strands of hair falling into his eyes, tickling at his forehead, but he doesn't care. His hands fumble urgently around her body, one landing on her shoulder and the other coming to grasp at the back of her head in a movement that's far too familiar. His body is buzzing, his mind whirling a million miles a minute as his heart beats erratically in his chest because he has to do something.

He gently places her back onto the ground and does the only thing he can think of—he begins chest compressions, using all of his energy and strength in an attempt to pump the life back into her. He does a set and then moves, tilts her head back to make sure her airway is clear, pinches her nose, and breathes. Steady but forceful breaths, willing her chest to rise and fall of its own accord.

Thirty compressions, two breaths.

Thirty compressions, two breaths.

"Please, Kate," he pleads, his voice nothing more than a desperate sob as he goes back to her chest. "I know you can do this, Kate. Come on. Please wake up."

There's a commotion around him but he doesn't hear any of it. The vibrations of the chaos thrum through his body, lighting it on fire, sending shock waves of energy where he needs it most. His hands. They keep going. They don't stop. The breaths don't stop. Her chest rises and falls but it's because of him, his breath. She's still not breathing.

He hears a faint, "Beckett's down!" from somewhere behind him but he doesn't even react. It's Esposito or Ryan, doesn't know exactly. He can feel the stomping of frantic footsteps approaching, getting closer and closer until there's a shadow hovering above him and someone's there.

"Castle, you have to stop—"

What? Stop?

"No!" he rasps, his fingers clutching at the stiff material of her shirt. "Beckett—Kate, please!"

There's a hand on his shoulder. He barely chances a glance up but he doesn't have to; the owner of the hand is kneeling next to him, trying to move him out of the way. Lanie.

"Castle," she tries again, and it's the break in her voice that catches his attention.

So he does, he looks up. Her eyes are bloodshot, tears streaming down her face, and he knows that he looks no better.

"Lanie, we have to—Kate—we can't stop," he manages, redirecting his attention back to the task at hand. Please, Beckett. "I won't. No. She has to wake up."

He can barely get past the tears clouding his vision but even through the blurry haze he can see Lanie put her hands over his own, forcing him to still their movements on Beckett's chest.

"Castle," she says more forcefully but no less watery. "Honey, you did all you—you did all you could."

No. No he didn't.

If he did everything he could she'd be coughing, waking up, opening her eyes and making a quip about how many times he'll brag that he saved her life.

But his hands stop. She's not moving. She's just lying there, so small and pale and drenched.

He sinks back onto his haunches for a few seconds, raking a hand down his face before clamping it over his mouth, his body rocking with the force of his sob.

No.

"Kate," he gets out, moments before he grabs her by the shoulders and tugs her to him. The chill of her wet clothes on his own is intense but he ignores it, just presses her slack body against his chest, wrapping his arms around her back. He screws his eyes shut and hides his face into the crook of her neck, letting out a guttural noise that resembles a broken cry. "Please," he whispers this time, doesn't have the strength to make anything louder come out. "Don't go. Don't leave me like this. Kate, I love you." His voice breaks around the phrase, the one he's been putting off saying again because he didn't want to scare her off. The one he apparently only lets out into the world when she's dying in his arms. "Please. Don't leave."

But it's no use.

She's already gone.

Lanie has to pry her body from his grip, tear each individual finger from where it's curled tightly into the fabric of her jacket so they can move her. He doesn't follow; he sits in the grass in the same position, unseeing eyes looking at nothing. He doesn't know how long he's there, only that when he finally blinks, his lashes damp with more unshed tears, no one is next to him. Lanie went with the body—she went with Kate to the hospital or the morgue, he doesn't know.

There's a brush on his shoulder. "Castle, you should go home," a voice says. When he looks up, his bleary eyes are met with the intense blues of Ryan's. His are just as watery, his face just as crumpled.

Esposito appears seconds later and then he feels himself being tugged up from the ground.

"Beckett would want you to get some rest," Espo tries, but even his voice is wavering as he tries to keep his composure. "She wouldn't want any of us to wear ourselves out right now."

He can't muster anything up to say return so he just gives them both what he hopes is a meaningful, sympathetic look and turns on his heels. With one last glance at the ground where she was only moments before, he leaves. His feet drag him to the nearest street corner where he waits for a cab, rattles off his address on autopilot, and sits back.

The loft is quiet, Alexis and his mother already asleep, and he stumbles blindly into his bedroom. He has the presence of mind to remove his wet clothes and throw on a pair of sweatpants, but then he's in bed, his face squished in the pillow where his tears gather.

The last thing he sees before he falls into a restless sleep is her.

He bolts up with a loud gasp, his fingers clutched tightly around the edges of his comforter. He's disoriented, his breathing heavy, his heart thrashing against the cage of his ribs. He feels sick.

One quick look around and a second to think has him remembering why. Beckett. Kate.

A hand comes up to his hair as he shakes it out, not caring that it's a mess and all over the place. The clock next to his bed is bright, the large block numbers mocking him. 3:27am. It blinks, as if reminding him over and over again that it's the middle of the night and she's still dead.

He suddenly can't breathe. What breaths he can manage come in short, choppy bursts and his eyes fill with tears that he tries to push back.

He didn't do enough.

It took him too long to find the gun. It took him too long to dislodge it from where it was stuck beneath her seat, jammed under the bar meant to adjust its movement. It took him too long to shoot her seat belt off, to shoot the front windshield enough in order to get it to a point where he could kick it out. It took him too long to grab her body and pull her through the glass, too long to swim up to the surface with her in his arms.

Dead eyes.

That's all he sees.

Vacant, hollowed out eyes that once held so much life. Eyes that were once a stunning hazel, piercing with flecks of gold in the sunlight. Eyes that were so bright, that would glare at him but soften when she thought he wasn't looking. Eyes belonging to the woman he loves. Those eyes are now empty.

He screws his own shut but the image is still there, etched into the backs of his eyelids. He digs the heels of his palms into his sockets, willing the picture to just leave, get out, stop staring back at him.

Another muffled sob escapes his throat and he shoves the blankets away, swings his legs out of the bed, only to knock over the entire pile of books he had on the bedside table. He curses himself, but he can't find himself actually caring. They were books he planned on lending to Beckett—she mentioned wanting to read something new, so he took it upon himself to get a list together.

But it doesn't matter. She can't read them anymore.

He slides down the side of the bed and sits there, silent tears staining his cheeks, fingers fumbling over the books before he just gives up and buries his face in his hands. He didn't do enough. He didn't save her. If he'd just been a bit faster, a bit stronger, a bit better.

"Dad?" The voice startles him and he jumps, his heart speeding up. "I heard a crash and I—Dad, what's wrong?"

Alexis. It's Alexis and her voice is concerned and she has no idea about Beckett.

"Alexis," he chokes out, and that apparently does it because she's next to him, a hand on his shoulder. "It's—it's my fault. I'm so sorry."

Her eyes meet his, her brows crinkled in concern and confusion. "What's your fault? What's going on?"

"Beckett," he manages, his voice hoarse and pained. "She's dead. I didn't—I wasn't quick enough—"

The woman he loves is dead and it's his fault and now his daughter knows and he just wants to wake up from this nightmare.

Alexis searches his face. "What? Dad, Detective Beckett is fine," she says, and he doesn't understand why she doesn't get it.

"No," he corrects her. "No. We were stuck in the car and I tried—" He hiccups, the sound foreign to his own ears, another tear falling from his eye. "I tried to bring her up in time. I tried, Alexis," he calls out, much louder than he intended. "I did CPR and I tried to bring her back, I tried to save her. She drown—she died and I couldn't—"

Alexis shakes his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. "Dad," she says firmly. "You got out of the car. Detective Beckett is alive, she's okay. We saw her last night. She drove you home."

His frown falters but then he shakes his head. "I saw her. I saw her eyes. Her body—it was in my arms. She was soaked and she wasn't moving, and Lanie had to take her away—"

She must finally believe him because Alexis removes her hand from his shoulder and gets up, retreating from his bedroom and leaving him sitting in a pile of fallen books.

She's brought out of her sleep by a ringing next to her ear, a shrill noise that has her groggily reaching over to silence it as fast as she can. Her eyes peel open slightly, enough to look at the clock and groan, the bold 3:38am staring back at her.

The ringing persists and she's about to ignore it, turn the volume down because Gates insisted she take tomorrow off and there's no need for her to wake to a body drop, but she stops when she sees the name blinking on her phone. Her eyes open more and she pushes herself up onto her elbows, bracing herself against her pillows as she answers.

"Alexis?"

She hears a relieved sigh. "Detective Beckett," the girl breathes. Why is Alexis calling her in the middle of the night? "I'm so sorry that it's so late, but dad—"

"What's wrong?" she asks quickly, already shoving the blankets off of her body, hissing at the chill of the air. "Is he okay?"

Silence. "Yes and no," she replies, but continues a second later. "Nothing happened to him, but I heard a crash so I went to see what it was and I walked in on him sitting on the floor, crying, in a pile of books that he knocked over."

She doesn't know what to say to that, so she just waits patiently until Alexis elaborates.

"I asked him what was wrong and he said you were dead," the girl gets out, her voice uncertain. The rest of her reply is an urgent, rushed ramble. "He must have had a nightmare about yesterday because he said you drowned and he tried to save you but he wasn't fast enough and you died and it's his fault and I tried to tell him you were fine, that you were okay, but he doesn't believe me and I didn't know what else to do—"

She has her shoes on and she's shimmying into her jacket by the time Alexis finishes, having already made a beeline for her closet the second she told her Castle thought she was dead. She knows he had a nightmare about their car plummeting into the lake, she just wishes it wasn't of her dying. She of all people knows just how vivid these nightmares can be, how clear the pictures stay in your mind and make you believe that it's not a nightmare at all, but reality.

"I'll be right over," she tells Alexis, her fingers grasping at her keys as she locks the door behind her.

Alexis breathes. "Thank you, Detective Beckett," she says gratefully. It can't be easy to have to watch her father go through that. She knows it's not pretty. "I'll unlock the door."

"Okay, thank you."

And with that she's in her car, shoving her phone into her pocket before she pulls out of the parking spot.

She closes the door quietly behind her and toes off her shoes before moving into the loft, finding Alexis standing at the entrance to his office.

"Detective Beckett," she exhales, relief coloring her words. "Thank you for coming. I'm sorry I woke you up—"

Kate shakes her head. "No, it's okay. I'm glad you did," she says, giving the teen a small smile. "Is he still in his room?"

Alexis nods. "He finally got back in bed but he still doesn't believe me. He just keeps saying that it's his fault." The girl's eyes dart hesitantly through the bookshelves, concern written all over her face.

Kate sighs. "He'll be okay, Alexis," she says, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "These nightmares can seem so real that you just believe them without any definitive proof other than what you think you saw." Alexis gives another small, thoughtful nod. "I'm gonna go talk to him. You should try to get some sleep."

"I—yeah, maybe," she says finally, looking from Kate to the stairs. "Thank you, again."

She nods and watches Alexis go back upstairs before she takes a breath and moves through the study, stopping at the doorway to his bedroom. He's sitting in his bed, his head bowed as he stares at the hands propped in his lap. He lifts one of them to wipe below his eyes but she can still see the moisture on his face, the small lamp next to his bed setting him in a soft glow, and she hates that he's worked up because of this.

She takes a step into the room, one of the floorboards creaking under her, and he sighs.

"Alexis, you can go to bed," he whispers quietly.

She takes another step. "It's not Alexis."

His head shoots up, his eyes immediately finding hers and she watches as they widen in shock.

"Beckett?" His voice is small and disbelieving. "Kate."

She moves then, her legs bringing herself towards him until she's sitting at the edge of his bed. He's staring at her, a few tears trailing down his cheeks, and she reaches out to wipe them away. The brush of her fingers on his skin has him on fire and she notices the second his eyes change, the second he realizes that she's truly here. He lurches forward and wraps her in his arms, pulling her into his chest, but she doesn't resist. She just pushes herself further onto the bed so the embrace isn't as awkward and hugs back, rubbing calming lines across his back.

"God," he chokes out, a relieved sob wracking his body. She can feel the jerk of his chest against hers. "Thank God. Beckett. You're—"

"It's okay, Castle. I'm right here," she soothes.

"Kate, you—you died in that car," he gets out, his voice wavering as his arms tighten around her. "I tried—I tried so hard. But it wasn't enough. I pulled you out and did CPR but you weren't—you weren't breathing. Lanie had to take your body away, and the boys—they told me to go home, that you wouldn't want us to wear ourselves out."

She would let out a humorless laugh if her heart wasn't breaking right there, cracking with each word he says.

Oh, Castle, no.

She shakes her head against him. "Hey, no," she says quietly, keeping her voice soft. "You found the gun and pulled me out in time. You saved both of our lives, Castle." She pulls away just enough so he's forced to meet her gaze. "Look at me." He does, and she hates the lingering pain she sees in his eyes. "I'm right here, okay? I'm here. You just had a nightmare."

He buries his face into her neck again, much like he did in what was apparently a nightmare, and lets out a shuddering breath.

"It was so real, Kate," he whispers into her hair. "I held your body in my arms. I felt it—I—" He pauses, just breathes in for a second, reveling in the scent of her. So real, so tangible, so close. "You didn't have a pulse."

She uncurls herself from him then, surprised by the chill she feels and the instant urge to just curl back in. She grabs one of his hands and pulls it to her wrist, placing his index and middle fingers above her pulse point.

"You feel that, Castle?" He nods, his eyes glued to the hand that's now wrapped around hers. "I'm here, I'm okay. I'm alive."

He nods again then, bringing his free hand up to wipe at his eyes once more. He's calmed down now, his breathing slowly returning to normal and the memories flooding back, replacing the nightmare. The car, him swimming up with Beckett in his arms, the boys bringing them dry clothes. He got them out.

He saved them. He saved her. She's okay.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs quietly, raking his hand through his hair again. "It was just so—"

"Vivid," she supplies, giving him a small, understanding smile. "I know. It's okay, Castle. Nothing to be sorry for." He lets out a breath. "You okay?"

He huffs, gives a watery chuckle. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay," he says. His brows crinkle after a beat. "How did you..."

"Alexis called," she admits, letting her lips tug upwards for him.

He sighs, looking down at his hands before he brings his head back up. "I'm sorry, again. It's late, you should go get some sleep."

Kate dislodges herself from him and can hear his small exhale, but she just stands, removes her jacket, and slides into the other side of his bed. She has to hold in her laughter at his shocked expression, the way his jaw is practically on the ground, his eyes wide.

"Beckett?"

She hides a grin. "Yes, Castle?"

He clears his throat. "What are you—what are you doing?"

She shrugs against the covers. "I'm getting some sleep, just like you said." She rolls her eyes at his gaping expression and scoots closer, tugging him so he's flat against the mattress. "Sleep, Castle."

She can see the hesitance in his eyes, tiny sparks of lingering fear, and she gives him a soft smile before closing the gap between them. She picks up his arm and drapes it over her body, smiling at the hitch in his breath. If this is what he needs to be sure, she'll give it to him.

"Kate, I'm—"

"I know," she cuts him off gently, bringing her eyes up to his. "I'm right here, Castle."

His arms tighten around her as he settles back in, taking a much needed, content breath. He stays awake for a while longer; she's a welcome weight against his chest and he smiles then, a real smile, as he looks down at her. Her eyes are closed, but they're not dead. They flutter in her sleep as she dreams, her lashes dancing above them. The sound of her breathing soothes him, the steady rise and fall of her chest proof enough that everything's okay.

He closes his eyes and he's no longer met with the same image, no longer grieving for his detective. She's alive, and she's in his arms.

She's right here.