Because of D. Even though you'll never read it.

So I watched the world tear us apart
A stoic mind and a bleeding heart
You never see my bleeding heart

~Mumford and Sons, "Reminder"

He saw it all so clearly, their future an inevitable conclusion that ran on an endless loop in the cinema of his mind. How effortlessly they would fall into it, how amazing they would be together. He saw the easy, languorous days of brunch at home followed by lounging on the couch to read or watch TV or just be. He saw the difficult days of tough cases, long hours and quick tempers that would still end with her body tucked against him as his head sunk into the pillow. He saw the passionate nights of roaming hands and slick skin; moans and demands and pleasure-filled cries breaking the quiet. He saw their wedding, big or small it didn't matter. He saw their children. Or not. It was all up to her. He didn't even need them to be married. He just needed her.

But it's been a year and he's not a stupid man. He can listen to what her silence is telling him.

He gets glimpses, vague mentions of things that Ryan says on Facebook, overzealous fans posting their adventures of trying to subtly stalk a police detective. He chuckles as they recall what the holding cells at the Twelfth look like. But his laughter subsides as he realizes that these fans have seen more of her than he has in the last year.

She said she needed time. He naively thought that meant a few days, he even forgave her a few weeks. But when it became months and she was back at work with no call? Oh, who is he kidding, he would have even forgiven her that. But this? A year? It's not a matter of forgiveness anymore. It's a matter of him having to come to terms with how much of a colossal idiot he's been.

She always meant more to him than he did to her. At the beginning, she was more important to his work than him to hers. After those first six months, his interest changed from professional and carnal to something deeper, something more emotional. And still she brushed him off, opted for the companionship of another detective instead of a weekend at the beach with him. (Granted, a fling with a movie starlet may not have ingratiated him to her.) After that summer came the most confusing nine months of his life. She had a boyfriend (that no one knew about at first) but she still let him be there, still called him her partner, still engaged in banter that bulged at the seams with innuendo. She let him kiss her. Because that might have been an idea to distract the guard but she caught on quick and she could have stopped it. She not only didn't, she kissed him, too.

And then Los Angeles happened. She didn't fight him coming along, accepted the seat next to him in first class with the least amount of resistance he thinks he's ever seen out of her. That electric night on the couch when he found himself baring his soul and tried to cover it up with his trademark inappropriateness but even that didn't wipe the smile off her face or melt the softness from her eyes. There was that second, that moment where the air was made of lightening, when she leaned forward an infinitesimal amount but it was enough to have him thinking, "Finally." And then it was over, she was standing up, running away. His heart shattered when the door closed and he hurried off to his own room before he did something that he shouldn't.

He still regrets not going after her. He should have wrenched the door open and made her admit that she felt it too. (He's never been able to convince himself that he didn't hear her door open again. It was closed tight when he peeked out to look but he swears he heard the handle turning.)

But still he stayed. Because where else would he be but at her side?

And then came the fateful events of last May and the biggest fight they've ever had. The one where she asked what they were and he didn't back down from the question. But she did. She kicked him out and he thought that they really were done. When Roy asked him to come to the hanger, he didn't hesitate. Because she might hate him even more for it, but he'd never forgive himself if he let her die.

She let him take her home that night. Let him be by her side the next few days. She was the one that asked him if he would be a pallbearer. She asked him to stand with her while she talked about her captain.

"And if you're very lucky, you find someone willing to stand with you."

He will never forget the pointed way she looked at him. It seemed to be an ending to a conversation that was cut short in a white tent while they waited to find out if they would slowly die from radiation poisoning. He was still willing to be that person that dove into it with her and maybe she was finally accepting that. He was in the middle of resolving himself to talk to her when he saw the glint off the scope. A second later, his world shattered and words that he'd barely managed to let himself think spilled from his lips while her blood spilled on the grass.

He thought she knew, he thought she heard. She smiled faintly before her eyelids fluttered shut and he told himself that she heard, that she was using the words to fight. But she didn't. He doesn't see it as defeat though. He sees it as another opportunity to say it at a better time, the right time.

But that opportunity never came. He's only spoken to her once in the last year. And to say that it wasn't the right time is an understatement.

November 2011

He's completely stuck. He knows that the police work on the case he's writing is terrible but he doesn't quite know how to fix it. This is the part that Ryan and Esposito have helped him with in the past. Beckett was the inspiration but the boys kept the story grounded and let him know what was completely unreasonable.

There's no reason he can't stop by to see them, right? It has nothing to do with the fact that she might be there. Nothing at all to do with that.

He shoots Ryan a text, is told that it's a great time because they're just wrapping a case and would love an excuse to avoid paperwork for a while. He uploads his notes to the iPad and is out the door a few minutes later.

He's excited most of the trip there; the homicide bullpen had become his home away from home for so long that it feels weird to not be there every day. But when he gets on the familiar elevator and presses the button for floor four, he's suddenly seized with fear. What if she's not there? What if she is and she doesn't want to see him? What if she is and she's so glad to see him that she beams a smile that has him falling in love with her all over again?

All too soon, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. But he's in a daze, feet frozen from what if's and it's only when the doors start to slide close that he snaps out of it, slaps a hand on the edge of a door to open them again and steps out. His eyes scan the room and people start to recognize him, LT, Velasquez, Stegner. They throw him smiles and waves and the gestures are easy to return because he misses these people. Esposito spots him, back hands Ryan on the arm to let him know. Castle finally lets himself look at Beckett's desk.

Empty. Computer screen is black so it's not like he just missed her.

(His chair is still beside her desk. He tries not to read too much into that.)

He takes a deep breath and heads for the boys, plasters a smile on his face that becomes genuine as he nears these men that are like brothers to him.

"Your cop skills that outta practice? Just 'cause you're not here every day, you can't remember how to book a suspect anymore?" Esposito ribs him with a grin on his face.

"Ha, ha," Castle throws back sarcastically. "It's more than that, the killer needs to leave something that ties him to the crime but nothing so obvious that they find him 5 pages later. You guys ever come across something like that?"

That catches their attention and soon Castle's fingers can't type fast enough as they start recounting weird cases. They get off topic after a while, the guys wanting to catch him up on the cases he's missed this fall. Esposito tells him about Ryan hanging upside down on a sofa ("She pushed me over the back!" he cries in defense) while he snagged their suspect by the ankle as she tried to climb out the window. He's in the middle of describing the woman's clothing (which is apparently the most hilarious part) when he trails off mid-sentence, his eyes focused over Castle's shoulder.

He doesn't need to turn around. He shouldn't turn around. He should just stand up and go out the back way. But he can't help it, he twists in his seat and there she is, standing just outside the elevator doors, her eyes locked on him.

His blood seizes in his veins despite the wild rhythm his heart has picked up; his lungs have lost all ability to expand. She's….perfect. He hasn't seen her since that day in the hospital when she looked like hell but still managed to be the most beautiful woman in the room. So to see her now, whole and graceful, it's like his life has started over again. And he can't handle another break.

He has got to get out of here.

He tears his eyes from her, turns back to the guys and somehow manages to say, "That's my cue," with a fair bit of levity before standing. They try to protest, try to tell him to stay but it's half-hearted and they toss offers to call if he needs anything else as he makes his escape.

He can hear her damn heels on the hardwood. She's coming after him.

"Castle," she hisses in some attempt to be quiet but it's not like everyone isn't already staring anyway.

He realizes that he's not going to make it out of here without talking to her but he can least make it on his terms a little so he keeps moving, tries to get into the back hallway so they're not providing a floor show for the whole bullpen.

"Castle," she hisses again and even though he was about to stop anyway, he takes a few more steps before halting.

Yeah, it's petty but he doesn't so much care.

He steels himself and turns to face her. She's only about five feet away and this time there's not the distance of a room and the crisscross of those things that perpetrate as walls to occlude his vision. He can't help it, he gasps. Because he will never get over how beautiful she is.

He wants to be angry, he wants his vision to swim with red. He wants to yell and rail and scream. But even more than any of that he wants to take her in his arms and bury his face in her hair. He wants to feel her body against his, wants to know if they slot together as well as he thinks they would.

He can't look her in the eyes. He doesn't want to know what he might find. Pity? Grief? Guilt? So he casts his eyes down, catches her hands twisting together over her stomach, her fingers clenched so tight that her knuckles are white.

"Beckett, what do you want?" His voice is rough, biting.

"I didn't know you were stopping by." He sees her shoulders rise and fall, an attempt to make the words lighter.

That sets his blood boiling. "I didn't know you'd care," he spits out, gets a bit of perverse pleasure out of the flinch that she does.

She stops wringing her hands, almost seems to be reaching towards him as she starts, "Look, Castle, I meant-"

"DON'T." He cuts her off, the syllable carrying the weight of his anger. He finally raises his eyes to hers, needs her to see it as well as hear it, needs her to see how much he means what he's saying. "Don't say you 'meant to call' because if you had, you would've by now."

Her hands drop to her sides but only stay there a moment before resuming tangling together.

"I didn't come here for you, Kate."

(Lie.)

"I just needed to talk to the boys."

(Mostly true.)

She opens her mouth, hesitates, closes it again. And then says in a rush, "It's good to see you."

Is she fucking kidding him?

"Is it? Because this could have happened before today, all it would have taken was a phone call. I don't remember getting one of those." He's livid and revels in the sardonic tone dripping from the words. "Do you remember making one of those, Kate?"

Her jaw is clenched tight, tears shining in her eyes. He should feel bad but he doesn't, because he's not the reason she's crying, he didn't do this to her. She's doing it to herself.

"No," she pushes out between her teeth. She relaxes her face, which allows a tear to fall from each eye, her bottom lip to tremble a moment before she continues. "And I'm sorry about that." She swipes at the wetness on her face.

He shakes his head, huffs out a breath. "Yeah, me too."

He's calmed down a little bit and allows himself to take her in. She looks terrified; hands still gripped together, shoulders curled in, head bowed down. What is she so scared of?

Something occurs to him and he starts, "Did you-" before he cuts himself because that's not how he wants to ask this.

"Did you recover your memory of the shooting?"

She curls in on herself even more and that answers the question for him but from behind the curtain of hair that has fallen over her face he hears a soft, "No."

(Lie.)

She brushes her hair back but doesn't quite meet his eyes. "I, uh, saw a therapist for little while but, it…it didn't help."

(Mostly true.)

All of her tells are there and he knows she's not being honest. So the question remains, what is she afraid of? Him? His words and all they imply? Being happy? She deserves to be happy and she's still afraid just like he had called her out on during their argument last May.

He can't believe this what they've become, uncomfortable silences and lies. How could his vision of future them have been so wrong?

He's exhausted, of this conversation, because of this conversation. He's exhausted from having to fight back the gut-twisting love that he has for her because he will not throw himself at her feet and beg even though there's so much of him that wants to. She needs her to want it too and while he thinks she might, she has to admit that, he won't bully it out of her. He's exhausted from letting himself be so damn hopeful, even his inner cheerleader doesn't see much to encourage anymore.

"I'm gonna go." It's then that he realizes that he'll need to walk past her to get the back stairwell, unless he wants to go back out to the bullpen and take the elevator again. He can't face all those people out there right now and it's a big hallway, he can do this.

She nods in understanding or maybe defeat and even shifts to the side a little to give him more room. He's almost past her when her arm shoots out, her hand landing on his forearm. It's not even her skin on his and he still feels the spark through his suit jacket. He has to tap into the deepest recesses of his self-control to not push her against the wall and kiss her until neither of them have breath left. His movements are tight, rigid but he reaches out and snags the sleeve of her jacket, careful not to touch her and tugs on the fabric to remove her hand.

He looks at her, lets whatever's all over his face show. (Lust? Anger? Pain?) She regards him with wide eyes, confusion and hurt and that never-ending fear shining back.

"Don't, Kate. Not unless you mean it." His voice is rough, it's obvious how much she can still affect him. He waits a moment, gives her a chance to say or do something but gets nothing in response.

He's used to that from her, has been dealing with nothing for five months now and somehow, that makes it easier to turn and walk away.

He makes it one flight down before he has to lean against the wall on a landing, his knees giving out as he slides gracelessly to the floor. He gives himself a minute, chokes back a few sobs but doesn't allow the grief to overtake him. Not here. He forces himself up, makes his way out of the building and goes home.

To his family's surprise, he keeps writing Nikki. He has about 6 books outlined so it's just a matter of filling in the blanks. He doesn't even care about the caliber of the writing, if his name is attached, they'll still be best sellers.

Originally, he thought every book in the series would be dedicated to her. Then the whole thing with Roy happened ("Thing?" The man died, Rick.) and that dedication just seemed right. But this one in Frozen Heat will be the last for her. Even if she's the only one that may or may not know it. (Because he's not convinced that she doesn't remember.)

If you heard me,

I still mean it.

Always.

On the day the book is released, he holds his breath.

She never calls.

Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead.

~Adele, "Someone Like You"

AN: As always, so many thanks to Jennifer for looking this over.

I'd love to know what you think.