A/N: Inspiration struck when I saw a Killshot gif on my timeline on twitter. This came out of it. Nic very kindly looked it over for me and helped make it better.

Disclaimer: I don't own Castle. Castle sometimes owns me.

The Trouble With Waking

The sniper case had gotten to her. The sniper had gotten to her. Even if Kate Beckett wasn't the target – Not this time, her mind supplied – she felt like a victim.

She knew what was going on. The sense of dread, the breakdown from earlier in the day, the sharp physical reminder of a phantom pain that had long since abated – Kate wasn't stupid. She wasn't in denial either.

It wasn't denial. Anything but! How can you deny something that's standing right in front of you, staring you in the eyes, breathing fear into the air that surrounds you?

How could she?

She didn't. It wasn't denial.

It wasn't denial. So she set her gun on the coffee table. Set the bottle of scotch next to it, once she'd filled her glass.

There were memories. Loud memories. The sound of a soft breeze causing ripples in the grass and trees. The sound of silence so bridled with respect. The sound of a family, present in solidarity.

It wasn't denial, so she drank. She drank, and it was a distracting warmth. A distracting fire. But it only lasted a handful of seconds till there were more memories. So she poured some more.

Rows and rows of New York's finest. All who'd sworn to uphold the law. Justice. What kind of justice were they afforded? Rows and rows, all appreciated. All paying their respects. And there was him. The one person who wasn't in uniform but was one of them nonetheless. He was one of them. He was the one out of them she sought. And fought. And not.

It wasn't denial. The glass held more than the bottle. That didn't seem right. Nothing seemed right. She tipped it back. All in one go, and then she was up in a haze.

She knocked into a lamp and it teetered but won out. Her heart thudded louder than the noise. It hit hard onto her ribs. Hit after hit after hit. She got the other one. The other bottle, and got back to her place on the edge on the couch. On the edge. Just in case. Just how it was.

It wasn't denial. It was the shadows that were moving. Not in her memories this time. There were real shadows. Shadows on her wall. Noises that weren't in her head. Not all in her head.

They moved so harshly, these shadows when she poured another glass. When the neck of the bottle clinked against the rim of the glass, and her elbow hit the empty bottle. It fell and it rolled but it was still on the table. But the shadows – they moved.

Duck and cover. Training. She was trained for this.

So she grabbed her Glock and pushed the table aside. It fell loudly. The bottles crashed to the floor, and they rolled and they broke. She jumped over them, but so did the shadow, so she crouched low. She was trained for this.

She crouched low and she rolled and scrambled to safety. Where was she safe? She wasn't, was she?

It wasn't denial. She wasn't safe. It wasn't denial. She wasn't safe.

Words and shadows and sounds and flashbacks on loop through her head. She whimpered, and looked up, crazed. How did she get against a wall in this little nook? Oh, right. She was trained for this.

Her right wrist was bleeding, but she didn't feel it. Probably the scotch. Probably the scotch why she was bleeding, probably also why she didn't feel it. She knew that, so her faculties were still intact.

It wasn't denial. Kate couldn't close her eyes, but they were closing anyway. Just a minute, then. Just a minute – and then, what? Just a minute, and then she couldn't think about it all.

-x-X-x-

Just a minute later the door crashed open, and she knew they'd come for her. Her eyes were open, her head jerked up, her gun was ready and aimed. There was nothing left then. No words, nor shadows, nor sounds, nor flashbacks. Nothing.

There was something. She shot. Twice.

And then her world dropped.

Her gun dropped.

Her heart dropped.

He fell to the floor. To his knees, with a sickening crack. Crumpled back on his heels, trying to keep from going flat. One hand supported him, the other went to the hole in his chest. Right in the middle.

Castle.

What had she done?

She ran to him. Fell beside him. His eyes were wide but not panicked at all. Like hers probably were.

"Castle –" she breathed. Or sobbed.

"It's okay."

"It's not. I shot you. I've got to call 911."

"It's okay."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"God! Stop saying that."

"I'm not, you know," he said with a chuckle that made his breath hitch. His chest gurgled. That couldn't be good.

"You're not?"

"I'm not sorry."

"Not sorry I shot you?" she cried, and choked. Was he dying, or was she?

"Not sorry I loved you."

"Castle, don't. Don't leave me. Stay with me."

"You love me?" he said, his lip twitching up. Smirking at her even as he was losing color, and breaths and beats.

"Always. Always, Castle. I love you."

That was it. That was how it ended. It couldn't be, could it?

His heart stopped. Her world dropped.

It wasn't denial.

-x-X-x-

She woke up with a start. She wasn't on the floor, in a nook. She was on the couch.

Her gun was in her hand. Her wrist was still bleeding. But there was no Castle.

There was no Castle, and there weren't tears on her face. But finally, it wasn't denial.

She shot up from the couch, found her phone on the table by the chair. It wasn't far, but she still lurched for it. She dialed his number in haste. It rang twice. Two beats she'd never get back.

Then mercifully, she heard his voice. "'Lo?"

Kate didn't reply. Didn't think she could. She gasped in a hungry breath.

"Kate? Are you okay?"

So tender. Always so tender.

"I'm coming over."

Don't. She didn't say. Didn't think she could. Her head shook, but of course he couldn't see.

She should've cleaned up. Wanted to clean up. It was the middle of the night, so of course he'd be here in a matter of minutes.

But she had ten minutes. She should've cleaned up. Only, she didn't think she could.

It wasn't denial, right? So she just sat there, and waited.

The knock was soft. Just two taps. It didn't feel like his normal greeting, but who else would it be? Another sniper?

Making her way to the door, she waited for more knocks, but they never came. It would probably have been sensible to check who was at the door. But she wasn't sensible. Not just then. She'd just killed him. She wasn't sensible.

Her gun was far from her. She made sure of that. That's what she did when she should've been cleaning up. She took out the cartridge, and clicked the safety on. It was still there. Still within reach. But without.

She couldn't just kill him. She was sensible. So she opened the door.

She opened the door and met his eyes in silent challenge. They stood there for ages.

First, he looked at her. Looked at her from head to toe, but he didn't reach out. Didn't even try. And that itself was odd. Didn't he see the blood? The bloodshot eyes?

Then he looked over her shoulder, not that difficult when she wasn't in heels. He looked at the mess. The other mess.

She could see him soaking it all in, but Castle had his poker face on. He didn't flinch. Or wince. Or anything. He just looked at it all. Scanned it. Studied it till he was satisfied.

He looked at her again. She couldn't hear his heart. That wasn't odd. You shouldn't be able to listen to hearts. You shouldn't. But she couldn't hear him breathe either. Her hand landed on his chest to feel for movement. It was there. It was steady.

This time when he looked down, he saw her bleeding wrist. Why was it still bleeding? Shouldn't these things stop? It didn't even seem to hurt. Probably the scotch.

He took her hand gently. Like she thought he would.

But there weren't any questions. Weren't any words. It made her frown.

He tugged and led her confidently through her mess of a living room, through her bedroom and into her en suite. Confidently though he'd never been there. Must be a Castle thing.

He held her forearm under the running water. Still so gentle, so tender. His eyes were fixed on his ministrations. There was a first aid kit in one of the drawers next to the sink. She pointed it out to him silently. Silently, he knew exactly what to do.

Turning off the tap, he dabbed at her hand with a towel while she stood awkwardly in her own bathroom. He made a quick job of patching her up, and then led her back out again.

They found themselves standing in the middle of her apartment. Not next to the carnage. He was careful about that when he led her back out. Silently.

They stood silently and she found it strange that she couldn't say all the things she said to him when he was dying. He wasn't. Found it even stranger that he was silent. Even if it was normal for her, it wasn't for him.

She took a step closer to him, and that's when his arms came up to engulf her in a hug. Brought her close to him, where she still couldn't hear his heart beating. It was like he knew exactly what she needed when she realized she needed it. But Castle always knew what she needed, sometimes before she realized she needed it. Not sometimes when he was being especially annoying. But especially at times like these.

So Kate pulled away again, and sure enough the walls were fading to black. Everything around them was. He was in color though. And he was finally smiling. He nodded at her in understanding and took a step back. Her hand was in his, and she had trouble letting go, but she couldn't hold on.

-x-X-x-

It wasn't so startling this time when she woke up. It was a slow creeping awareness. She was in the nook, against the wall. Her wrist stung and it had stopped dripping, but there was still a slow ooze. The Glock was held loosely in her hand.

She placed it on the floor next to her, and then she cried. All the tears for all the words and shadows and sounds and flashbacks. Kate allowed herself the chance to cry for all of it.

This time when she got up from her little safe spot, picking up her gun as she did so, she hoped it was real. She really didn't want to be stuck in her own head. In her own hell.

She unclipped the Glock, and felt a flood of relief when she saw no missing rounds.

She ached all over, and she was so tired. She knew he would be too, but she had to do it anyway. Had to make sure. So she called him.

He picked up immediately, sounding more awake than he should've at this hour of night.

"Kate?"

"Castle," she said softly, steadily.

"You okay?"

"I don't know."

"Want me to come over?"

"Yes."

In her dream, he was out of character. In his silence, that ran all the way to the beats of his heart. Or the lack thereof. In this reality, or what she hoped was reality, it was her turn.

She knew she'd surprised him.

"Oh! Okay. See you soon," he said and dropped the call.

Did he think she'd change her mind? Maybe. Maybe.

It took him a good fifteen minutes. Just like her dream, she didn't clean up. But she felt every tick of the clock as the time passed.

He didn't knock. Just said her name, like he knew she'd be waiting by the door. He did know, didn't he?

His voice was soft enough not to disturb her neighbors, but loud enough she heard it from the other side of her door. She undid all the bolts. Couldn't remember doing that in her dream.

The door opened to a disheveled looking Castle. They both took a minute to take each other in. His hair was half flopping over his forehead, half in place – as if he'd tried to finger comb it. He was wearing a mismatched pair of socks, and was in a pair of wrinkled jeans and t-shirt. It made her smile.

"Kate," he gasped, and brought her right wrist between them. He looked behind her and back to her again.

"Did you – Did you do this?" he choked out.

"In a manner of speaking,"

His eyes widened in horror, his mouth following.

"Not – not on purpose. I stumbled and fell, landed on broken glass. Didn't realize it at the time."

"Oh," he breathed out deeply. He stood there a little awkwardly then, seemingly lost, till he suddenly shrugged his shoulders, stepped into her space, and closed the door behind him once he could.

He yanked her close and hugged her tight breathing her in as he did. She could hear his breaths, and with her ear to his chest, she could hear every lub and every dub of his heart.

It washed out all the other sounds from hers.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

She pulled back to reply. "No. Nowhere else. I got drunk – which, I know is stupid."

"You're allowed a little stupidity, Kate."

"You would say that," she said, grinning at him for a moment. "I got drunk, and PTSD and anxiety kicked in on top of it. The bottles crashed, I crashed on them, and here we are."

"Okay," he said, surprised again. But he surprised her by putting it all aside for the minute, though she knew he'd come back to it later. "Well, let's get you patched up and then I'll clean that up, huh?"

"There's a first aid kid in my bathroom."

"Right," he said, rocking on his heels as she made her way inside.

"Castle?"

"What?"

"You coming?"

"I get to – yeah! Yeah, coming," he blubbered, following in tow.

"In there," she pointed out.

He took her hand, as gently as he did in her dreams, and put it under running water. She hissed, unlike in her dreams, the scotch was either wearing off, or didn't have magical properties.

Once he got the box out, he placed it next to the sink. His hands joined her wrist under the water, where he gently tried to massage the caked blood off. It almost made her cry again. He made a quick job of patching her up. The cuts – there were a few small jagged ones, now that it was easier to see – were deeper than a scratch, but fortunately not deep enough to require stitches.

"There. All done."

"Thanks, Castle," she said, bringing her banged up and bandaged up forearm to her chest.

"No problem. I've got to say, I'm a bit surprised you called me," he said with a frown. "I'm not dreaming, am I?"

She laughed loudly at that, a couple of tears streaming out of her eyes.

"What? What's so funny? Am I dreaming? I have my pants on, right?" He said, looking down as if to confirm, and back up at her again.

Kate's palm landed on his cheek, her thumb caressing his cheek and nose and lips. "You have such dreams often, Castle?"

"I plead the fifth?" he said, eyes wide in wonder, shinning with something she couldn't name.

"Need me to pinch you?"

"Ah, no, if it's a dream, I'd rather not wake up," he said and winced. "That was more of an inside thought than an outside one."

She smiled at him again, and reached forwards and up on her tiptoe to kiss his other cheek, lingering just for a moment. When she stepped back, his eyes were closed.

"Thanks. For being here," she said sincerely, and then added with a smirk, "even in my dreams."

"Always," he replied, and nudged her shoulder with his. "Now let's go clean that mess."

"Sure," she said, leading the way out.

"So…you were dreaming about me?" he said, as he bounced after her. The more serious conversations could wait till the light of day. For now, they were alright, even if they were awake in the middle of the night, in the midst of a waking dream.

~fin~