It's been three weeks.

Three long weeks and it's still painful to think about Castle, it still makes her heart stall to remember that he's as good as gone.

He said he'd still be around, but he's not here now, is he? He's been avoiding her, she knows that much. She's seen him out the corner of her eye about the precinct, swaggering through the lobby with Slaughter and a host of other Gang Unit cops, keeping his stare fixed ahead and his pace fast.

Making it clear he's a man with people to talk to and places to go. No time for interruptions and conversations, not even with her.

Not that she's tried, of late. After several emergency appointments with Doctor Burke, several hours of hating herself for not being able to keep the choke from her voice or the tears from her eyes when she talked about him, she tried to call. But it rang once, and went straight to voicemail. Her number's still blocked.

After that, she bought her own morning coffee. From a different store. The baristas in their usual store recognised her, kept asking, "And will you be needing one for Mr Castle, too?".

Her mute head-shakes and dropped gaze didn't seem to get through to them, so she decided to rip the band-aid off. Why wait for them to slowly get it? Why go through being asked that for weeks, maybe even months, before even the baristas figured out he was gone? Make a clean break, just like he did with her.

The key, she thinks, is resilience. Let the waves batter her, erode her, but stay in place. The storm will pass. There's no doubting she'll be different when it's over: uglier, more wounded, less than she was before. Without him. But still in place.

That's really the best she can hope for.

Gradually, she stops talking about him. Forces herself to stop waiting for his call. Forces herself to stop looking up every time the elevator doors open. The only way she'll survive is if she's strong enough to take the waves. She'll need more fortifications.

Quietly, she starts rebuilding her wall, brick by brick.

They're all in the bullpen when they get the call.

Ryan and Esposito are messing around, teasing each other as they stand in front of the murderboard. It's goofy and slightly over-exaggerated – for her benefit, she suspects – but she's grateful. She could use a distraction.

Velásquez breaks the fragile thread of light-heartedness in the air when she calls over to Ryan, indicating his desk. "You've got a Detective Ortega from Gangs on the line. He says he has the information you asked for, but there's something urgent he has to talk to you about."

Beckett shoots Ryan a confused look. Didn't he say he'd get a uniform to go talk to the Gangs Unit? Again, for her benefit. To save her going down there and being brushed off by Castle. Not to mention, the boys aren't happy with him either.

Ryan avoids her probing gaze, shrugging defensively before he moves off to his desk. Strange. He looks... almost guilty. Really, if he just wanted to see Castle, he doesn't have to hide it. She understands. Not that she isn't touched by their loyalty, but just because Castle seems to be done with her, it doesn't mean he should never see the boys.

She keeps a skeptical eye on him while he takes the call nonetheless. Fun has been sort of hard to come by lately, so she might as well try to have some by making him squirm.

But something isn't right. Ryan's silent for a long while, face draining of colour, gripping the back of his chair.

"Is he..." he finally chokes, and Beckett feels her body freeze up. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. She tries to catch his eye, ask a silent what's going on? It doesn't work. He doesn't look her way.

"Where is he?"

Where is who? Is this a suspect? Why would Ryan look so shell-shocked if it was a suspect? Why would Ortega from Gangs be phoning with urgent bad news, unless it was about...

No. She's not going there. That's not what this is about.

That can't be what this is about.

"Ryan?" She prompts as he carefully replaces the phone in its cradle, walks back to her and Esposito, and is he shaking? "What's going on?"

"It's Castle."

The room tilts, dizzying, and it's all she can do to stay standing. That's The Voice. The Homicide Detective Voice, the one they use when they have to break the worst possible news to relatives of a victim. She's been on the receiving end once before, one time too many, and she has to be imagining it, because this can't be–

"Ryan." The word is ragged, tearing out between rapid, too-shallow breaths. "Tell me."

"He was out in the field with Slaughter. It went sideways, and – he's been stabbed."

No, no, no, no, no, nononono. It's loud and shrill in her head, a constant oscillating ring, drowning out everything else, blocking her thoughts. This isn't how it ends. This cannot be how it all ends.

"He's – is he –" the words alive and dead are impossible to force out. Because if he's dead... he can't be dead. He's not dead. She would have known, would have felt her world splinter and crack and shatter into blackness the second Richard Castle's heart stopped beating.

"He's in surgery at the Presbyterian. That's all they know. But he's alive, Beckett."

Alive.

He's alive.

She has to see him.

The ride to the hospital is fraught, silent except for terse exchanges about the whereabouts of Martha and Alexis. Do they know? That he's been stabbed, is in surgery, could be flat-lining right now?

Esposito calls the loft, then Martha, then Alexis, all with no answer. He calls Lanie, breaking the news and asking if she's seen Alexis all in one breath. Beckett can hear Lanie's voice, raised and urgent, even without speakerphone. Is he still in surgery? Where was he stabbed? How many times? – too many questions she doesn't know the answer to, questions that call up images of Castle pale and prone and lifeless.

She hears a groan escape her throat, wants to cover her ears and close her eyes. Too much.

Lanie eventually tells Esposito that Alexis is in California for the week. Spending some time with her mom in LA, going on another tour of Stanford.

Beckett wants to close her eyes and cover her ears again.

Alexis is gone, on the other side of the country, for a week. That sort of thing would be huge to Castle. The sort of thing he'd tell her, bemoan over coffee, share his worries about – back when they were still them, that is.

If he hadn't left – if she had stopped him leaving – she would know about Alexis. She would have calmed Castle down, assured him she would be fine, cheered him up with burgers at Remy's or a trip to the Angelica. They'd be sitting in a booth right now, and she would be stealing his fries and grinning herself stupid, and he wouldn't even pretend to be annoyed before giving her that smile.

But she didn't stop him. He left. And now he's on some operating table, god knows how far from life or death, and she's biting down on her knuckles to stop herself from throwing up. Because she didn't stop him.

This is all down to her.

"Family of Mr Castle?"

She jumps up so quickly she nearly falls over, momentum sending her several steps forward in the waiting room before she regains her balance.

"I'm his partner," she croaks, eyes raking the doctor's face for a clue. He doesn't look sad, doesn't have the I'm so sorry face on, but he doesn't look happy either. Fuck, she should be good at this, should be able to read someone's expression. That's basically half her job, right? It's never been more important, and never been more impossible.

"He's out of surgery. It went well."

Her head falls forward automatically, hands scrubbing her face as she gulps for air. Small noises of relief sound behind her from Lanie and the boys, and she steadies herself.

"How is he?"

"He's in the recovery ward, but he's doing okay. There was some damage to his intestines, but we were able to repair the damage and stop the internal bleeding. He's lost a fair amount of blood, too, but fortunately the knife didn't hit any major blood vessels. We'll need to keep a close eye on him for a while to make sure he doesn't suffer any complications, but overall, your partner is a very lucky man."

Too close. The knife that just missed his arteries just missed her, too. Once again she's been spared the hell of losing him, but too close. It was far too close. And next time, when their luck runs out?

Fuck, she needs to talk to him.

"When can I see him?" Now, now, now.

"Well, he's in the PACU at the minute – that's the post-anesthesia care unit. He won't be awake yet, but we're monitoring him to make sure he wakes up properly and there aren't any negative reactions to the anesthetic. Once he's awake, he'll be moved to our post-op ward, and you can come see him. It shouldn't be more than an hour or two, I think. Mr Castle was quite difficult to keep under during surgery, you know. He kept trying to wake up, so I have no doubt he'll be up soon."

She lets out something that could be a laugh, could be a sob. It's a toss-up. "Yeah, he's annoying like that. Never does what he's told."

The surgeon smiles, tells them he'll be back to let them know when they can see Castle, and walks away. For a moment she toys with calling after him, asking if there's no way she could see him. Ask if there was no way they could speed up the process, get him moved wards more quickly.

But no. She reconsiders, and instead she wants to tell him to take as long as they need. Take longer. Do they understand how precious the man in their care really is? They should know that he's special. That he's everything. Should know to treat him like solid gold, do everything they can and them some.

She'll wait.

She sinks back into her seat.

Cold, hard, plastic seat. Uncomfortable, but she doesn't care.

She'd wait hours, days, months in this chair to see him. She's not going anywhere.

It's ridiculous, but the only clear thought in her mind as she approaches his bed is how ugly the divider curtains are.

Usually they're nondescript, a doctor's-scrubs light blue or green, clinical and functional. But the ones in this ward are colourful, clashing patterns of purple and yellow that hurt her head to look at. Castle's always been fussy with interior design – metrosexual, she used to tease him – and all she can think about is how much he must hate those stupid curtains.

He shouldn't be here.

What is she going to see when she pulls back that divider? She knows fine well he's awake, having been told so by the nurses, but she can't fight off pictures of him frail and unconscious, hooked up to machines fighting to keep him alive.

Well. There's only one way to find out.

She tries to open the curtain gently, steadily, but nerves make her motions twitchy and she ends up ripping it back sharply. She barely has time to wince at the too-loud scrape of the hooks against the railing before her breath flees her chest and there he is.

He's pale – she has a momentary panic about the possibility of further, undiscovered internal bleeding – and an impressive bruise blooms across his cheekbone, travelling under one eye. He looks exhausted, groggy, as bad as she's ever seen him, but miraculously, wonderfully, beautifully alive. And by virtue of that, he looks better than he's ever looked.

"Beckett. Hey."

Never has she been happier to hear that voice.

"Hey yourself, Castle."

Silence falls, awkward and charged, as she sits in the visitor's chair beside his bed. It's right by the top of the bed, close enough for her knees to be squashed against the metal sides, but she doesn't move it back. Doesn't want to.

"You're staring at me. I must look really bad," Castle quips wryly, echoing her words from in a hospital ward almost a year ago. She sucks in a breath at the joke – that little attempt at humour speaks volumes. Even after everything, he's automatically accommodating, giving her the option to keep things light-hearted and funny. If you could call him nearly dying funny. Which she doesn't.

It makes her so, so angry. That they have in-jokes about almost dying, stock words to use in a hospital recovery ward. That it's taken so many near-death experiences for her to realise she doesn't want jokes and brush offs and skating around the issue. That he still feels the need to give her an escape route. That, before today, she's always taken them.

"No, I just never thought I'd see you again." She completes the exchange without a trace of a laugh, can feel all her raw emotion poured into the words.

The tentative smile that had been on his face fades, and he sags against his pillows. "I didn't know if you would, either."

That's a multi-tiered statement, with layers and subtext she's not even sure she wants to examine right now. The familiar panic starts to constrict her lungs and urges her to run, but she rebels. Not today. Not after what she almost lost forever.

She shoots her hand out, wraps her fingers around his hand where it rests on the bed.

Castle stills, and the beeping heart monitor beside him picks up the pace slightly.

His hand is reassuringly warm and heavy, ever so slightly rough, exactly how she remembers. Alive. She says nothing for a moment, running her thumb absently over his knuckles, before she spots dried blood embedded around his fingernails. His blood.

She fights down bile, fights back the sting of tears.

"I've missed you."

She looks him dead in the eye when she says this, because he needs to know. He needs to understand. "And I'm so glad you're okay."

Silence. For a long time. She'd think he didn't hear her, if it wasn't for the blip on the heart monitor caused by her words. And then...

"I've missed you, too."

The way he says it is strange: almost reluctant, but no less sincere because of it. Like he's admitting an unrequited feeling. Painful.

She tightens her grip on his hand. "And I don't want you shadowing Detective Slaughter anymore. If you're done with me – if you're done shadowing me, I understand. But Slaughter's too dangerous and I don't... I can't see you get hurt again, Castle."

"I'm not gonna be shadowing him anymore." He won't look at her, keeps his eyes fixed on the bed. Every so often, he looks quickly at their joined hands. She wishes she could decipher his expression when he does, but as it stands, he looks carefully blank.

"And I'm not... done with you." It's quiet, borderline sullen, but she'll take it. She'll take anything at this point. A soft hope glows in her chest, keeps her breathing. He's not done. There's still a chance.

"Then why did you leave?" She's direct. To the point. She needs to know why the wheels fell off, so she can put them back on. Get them moving again, get them back to what they used to be.

No, not what they used to be – more. What they should've been a long time ago, what her stubbornness and their missed moments kept denying them.

She sees his throat work as he swallows, his eyes falling shut. He shrugs slightly, winces at the motion, and grits his teeth. "It's..."

Another long pause. He exhales heavily through his nose, shakes his head slightly. It becomes evident that there's no answer forthcoming, and she suppresses a choked noise of frustration.

They've come full circle in their relationship, it seems. From him chasing her while she remained terse, to both chasing each other, to her chasing him and being met with a stony face. She keeps running at him, but he has his own walls now, and he's kicking down every ladder she puts up. He's locked her out.

He pulls his hand away, picking almost self-consciously at the blood around his nails. "I really thought I was gonna die in that alley."

This comes out of nowhere, blindsiding her, and did he just say alley? Jesus Christ, she didn't know he'd been stabbed in an alley. Oh, god.

"It was weird. I was so sure I was gonna die. I was scared – I mean, I was completely terrified. But I just kept thinking... I was gonna die alone. And that the Twelfth might have to work the crime scene. And I was so angry that it had to be an alley, of all places. That you'd have to deal with that."

She can't answer past the lump in her throat, not while it's cutting off her air like that. She can barely breathe.

"I dunno. It's stupid. I just thought... my life didn't flash before my eyes or anything. It wasn't anything like I expected."

She finds her voice at last, nodding jerkily. "You notice strange things when you think you're gonna die. I remember I kept thinking about how green the grass was–"

Castle breathes in sharply, and she realises what she just said.

Oh.

Fuck.

Oh, fuck, no.

She just –

Oh, god.

"Castle–"

She's scrambling to explain, reaching for his hand again, but he pulls it out of reach with a hiss of pain. "Beckett, don't."

"No, Castle, listen to me."

"Look, I'd rather not, alright?" His face is shuttered steel. Completely closed off.

"If you could just let me explain–"

"You don't need to explain. I understand."

Wait. He does?

He doesn't have the expression of someone who understands. He doesn't sound like someone who understands. You understand that I wasn't ready? You understand that I was a coward and I'm sorry? You understand that I love you?

She should be saying this out loud. Why isn't she saying this out loud?

"You understand?" Caution, laced with hope. Dangerous, dangerous hope. It's coaxing her closer to the precipice, and she doesn't even want to stop it.

"Yeah. I get it. Message received, no need to worry. So you don't need to," he waves a casual hand between them, completely at odds with the distress in his eyes, "let me down gently. As it were."

Let him down gently?

"Castle, what are you talking about?"

"I already knew you remembered."

Her entire body freezes up. Deer in headlights, thy name is Kate. "How?"

"The bombing case. In the box with the suspect."

No, this is all wrong. He wasn't in on that interrogation, when she let it slip in a moment of pure anger. He was elsewhere, and she didn't see him again until later, she remembers because she hadn't had any interaction with him that day apart from the coffee he left on her desk–

Shit.

"You were in observation," she breathes. Oh, but now it all makes sense. He had to find out about her lie by accident, hearing her spit the words at a suspect like they were weapons. Do you wanna know trauma? I was shot in the chest, and I remember every second of it.

She didn't even give him the courtesy of telling him herself.

And the way he's been acting since then? Angry, distant, cold. She was the one who'd broken them. A sin of silence.

"I should've told you–"

"Beckett. Please. I get it, okay? Just... if you're gonna do it, please don't do it now. I don't – I can't deal with it right now."

That definitely does not sound like a man who understands.

"You get what, exactly?" This isn't going to go anywhere unless he stops talking in riddles. "What is it that you think you get, Castle?"

"Kate," he's pleading. Strained. "Please don't make me say it."

"Say what?" Childish. Stubborn. Needling. Whatever he's refusing to say, she's going to make him say it. Because it's cards-on-the-table time, and she needs to untangle this before she can start to sort things out. "I'm gonna keep asking until you tell me. What is it that you get–"

"That you don't love me!"

It bursts out of him suddenly, jagged and anguished, and he quickly pulls away. He shifts himself as far away from her on the bed as he can, face going white with pain, scowl fixed at the wall.

It's a solid punch to the stomach. He thinks that she doesn't – how could he even – was he stupid – where has he been for the past year? The past four years?

There's a pain in her chest that she thinks could be her heart breaking.

"Castle," she begins, choking on the enormity of her words. You can't think I don't love you. I won't let you. But he's shaking his head, cutting her off.

"And I understand. It's okay. You don't need to try to spare my feelings. So now that that's out in the open, could we..." He closes his eyes again. "I'm really tired, Beckett."

Some more stock words from their last hospital conversation. But she's not buying it.

"I'm not leaving."

"Please, Beckett. I just need to rest, okay?"

"Rick. I love you."

You can blame the long update time on tumblr. Sorry! As much as the fangirling I see(and take part in) gives me inspiration, it also sucks me into many hours of... well, fangirling. And we all know how scary good that is at stealing time away without you noticing. Not to mention, my control of grammar sort of goes out the window when I spend a while tagging things with "unf" and "omg?"