Author's note :

Hiya! This was a passing idea amongst many others I've had in the last few weeks (inspiration is so hard to find and so easy to lose you guys) and I'm actually pleasently surprised that I actually managed to finish writing this one.

Quick disclaimer, all the poetry here is from 'I wrote this for you' by pleasefindme. It's an amazing poetry collection, if you ever get around to reading it. The title is also inspired from it. And obviously, I don't own Castle...

Anyways, please enjoy!

The things that are left

The world made me cold. You made me water

One day we'll be clouds.

-pleasefindthis, 'I wrote this for you'

He finds the first paper on her pillow, the sheets on her side of the bed cold already.

All my dreams are beautiful. But none as beautiful as you. You are the reason I return here each morning.

A certain tenderness takes over him, washes away the feeling of emptiness of waking up alone in his bed. He knows this line, vaguely remembers reading it in Kate's favourite poetry collection.

Rick carefully folds the post-it and leaves it on his bedside table, grabbing his phone in the passing. He stretches away the night's soreness, hears the back of his spine emit a satisfying pop.

Grunting, he stands up, the joint of his bad knee grinding (he knows that's not biologically possible, but that's how it feels like). He closes his eyes, waiting for the wave of pulsing pain to subside. He almost hears the playful voice of his girlfriend saying he's getting old, the tease soothed by her arms around his waist and the light kisses she peppers on his neck in an effort to ease his sufferings.

Kate. Right.

It brings his mind back to the post-it, the first verse of the poem. Makes him wonder where she could've hidden the second verse.

But first, coffee. He's been staying up later than he should, writing in a frenzy, the deadline for his next novel fast-approaching.

Wait. Coffee?

He hurries to the espresso machine and sure enough, he spots the small square of paper, the violent shade of blue noticeable amongst the warm earthy tones of his kitchen.

Of course it's complicated. If it wasn't, I probably wouldn't be interested in you.

His mind flashes back to that moment last year, when the culmination of a year worth of pent-up feelings and frustration had driven them both so ragged her mother's case had almost broken them beyond repair. But they'd survived it, came out of it stronger than they'd ever been. Now he gets to love her, cherish her, hold her until she believes him when he says she's the most remarkable, maddening, challenging, frustrating person he's never met, and that he wants her, wants them and this complicated thing, love, they have. He'd even written it into his book, had publicly declared it -

Frozen Heat.

Rick races through the loft, reaches for his copy of Frozen Heat. He opens it at the dedication and picks up the photograph of them he finds there. It's a selfie of them she took during the summer of her suspension, her caramel locks spread on the vivid green of the grass while she kissed his cheek. He turns it around, finds the her recognizable scrawl staining the white of the paper.

There are a million of important things to do. But none as important as lying here next to you.

It's sweet. She's sweet.. If he's discovered anything in the past year, it's that Kate is sweet. As much as Beckett, the homicide detective is cold steel, Kate is soft and quiet and beautifully sweet when it comes to love. Kate seeks his embrace in bed, chases the warmth of his body in her sleep. Kate likes to read poetry in the bed before falling asleep, leaning against his chest so they can share the beauty of words together. That's why he recognizes the book where all of these notes came from, knows them by heart from all the times he'd seen her reverently stroke the lines with her finger.

Still holding on to his own book, he locates the black cover of the poetry collection on his shelf and takes it out to examine it. He flips through it, but finds no note in it. Odd. He holds it by the spine and shakes it, in case he missed something, to no avail.

Maybe the book really isn't the next clue.

The writer's about to put it back when he notices the dog-eared page Kate had left. Page 36.

You are the best parts of all the songs I love.

Songs. She loves Coltrane, always puts it on when she's helping him make dinner. He doesn't mind because she hums lightly along with the saxophone and her happiness enchants him and he loves her.

Next to his CD player, he finds a discreet white envelope with his name on it. He fumbled with the paper, suddenly nervous to discover what is inside. Too impatient to do it properly, he rips off the side and extracts the folded letter inside.

Rick,

I know you need words and I'm not good at giving them to you. I try to show you everyday when I kiss you good morning, when I wake up next to you, when our hands touch as you give me my coffee.

I love you.

The words you just read, the ones I left throughout the loft, they are the words I could never find to tell you how much I love you. But I want to try, babe, I want to try to give you my own words because you deserve to understand how much you mean to me.

Rick. Castle. When I think of you, I think of the ocean. As the sun and the moon and the stars wage a constant war, the ocean stays the same, always constant. You are my ocean, my love. You are full of life in between the quiet of my sorrow, you bring peace to the violence of my day. You are the tide to the shore of my heart, the constant among all the variables that equate my life.

You always say I'm the mystery you want to spend your life solving. If that's true then, you are the adventures I look forward to everyday for the rest of our life.

And our love story is the one I want to keep writing with you.

He hates this elevators. Oh, he's always hated them, that's not news, but it's been ten long excruciating minutes and he just wants to see her.

Kate.

The moment he had read the letter, he had grabbed his coat and phone and called a cab to the Twelfth. But the traffic was monstrous and he'd abandoned his cabbie to run the last couple of blocks, too eager and desperate to wait another second.

Finally the doors open on an almost insolent ding and he smashes the floor number repeatedly as if it would make it go faster. But the Universe mocks him and taunt him because the lift stops at almost all the floors and why does it always do that whenever he needs to get somewhere pronto.

Castle almost sighs with relief as it reaches the right floor. He stumbles out, gracefulness lost in his impatience. The boys and Beckett are nowhere to be found, he realizes as the bullpen comes into view. He grabs a passing Karpowski who tells him they are out in Interrogation one, breaking a suspect into confession, but that Beckett had left him a cup of coffee on the desk.

He approaches Beckett's desk where the lone travel mug is sitting and grabs it, taking a scalding swig of it that almost makes him miss the small post-it that's stuck underneath it.

marry me?

He feels her more than her hears her approaching. In a daze, he tracks her movements as she takes the forgotten coffee cup out of his hands, her eyes open and brilliant and beautifully tender.

Piercing through his heart.

"Does that mean you have a diamond ring for me?" he blurts out, his stupid dumbstruck brain regretting it as soon as it's out. But the soft laughter that tumbles out of her makes his heart soar, makes him forgive his stupid dumbstruck brain.

"I dunno, Castle. Depends on your answer." Kate answers. Despite the smile, she's bashful and if he wasn't so aware of how much bravery it must have taken her to propose to him, he'd laugh at the ridiculousness of the possibility that he might refuse.

He can't help but reach for her, circles her delicate waist to bring her closer.

"I love you." The whispered words are almost lost in the kiss he presses against her forehead. She pushes him back a little, just enough that she can look at him without the heat of his breath thoroughly distracting her.

"Still not a yes, Castle." An irrational part of him takes over, the part that needs to make sure this is real.

"Say it."

There's no hesitation, only the hitch of her breath when she repeats the question. "Marry me?"

"Yes. Katherine Houghton Beckett, yes, I will marry you."

A week later, he drags her into a jewelry store and chooses matching diamond-encrusted bands for the both of them, because it's stupid, he's stupid, but he loves the traditions and he wants the world to know that he's a taken man.

They both are.

Did you like it? If you did, a review or favourite is always very soothing to the heart. As always, let me know nicely if there are any typos/mistakes (I'm terrible at proofreading my own stories because I end up hating them when I re-read them too much).

There might be a sequel? I have yet to write it, so I can't make promises. But if an overwhelming majority of you are eager, I'll try my best!

Coffee Cup