Chapter 1

"What would you do if it was the last night of your life?" she asked, dark eyes huge and liquid, fingers caressing and coddling her elephants as if they were the last hope of a safe haven.

It was late: the bullpen empty and mostly dark, but Beckett didn't seem to be going anywhere – it seemed like she hadn't been going to go anywhere since the perp had been taken down to Holding two hours ago. The subsequent paperwork had been done long since, too, and there was no reason at all for Beckett still to be there, fidgeting with the elephants and messing with make-work.

Of course he was there with her. Where else should he be but shadowing his muse – his muse that he had so nearly, nearly lost to a crazed killer with a taste for C4 and – obviously, since he'd gotten into Beckett's Fort-Knox secured apartment – an ability to pick locks. Well, he'd been shoved in a cell somewhere a few weeks ago, and Castle hoped he'd rot there forever.

"You're maudlin," he deflected, worried about her mood. She'd been quiet and withdrawn ever since they'd exited Interrogation with a confession in hand; but truthfully, now he thought of it, she'd been similarly withdrawn, reserved even, ever since she'd found her new sublet and moved out. He hadn't dared ask her to stay, when she'd been so clearly in need of her own still, serene space: he'd seen her eyes jumping and skittering as his mother's over-exuberant and frequently over-lubricated personality had occupied the entirety of the public parts of the loft, and the nightly late-hour coffees in the peace of his study hadn't wholly cured it.

She was a woman, Castle remembered, who needed space and privacy: who needed to shut out the world. He did it with writing, losing himself for hours in the inside of his own head, where only his characters disturbed him, until he could put them on a page and have silence. Beckett, so present, so stage-front and in command of every aspect of her detective's day – retreated to her own apartment and took ease from solitude.

But still, he worried that this was more than her normal need for emptiness around her in which to recharge: more than her usual reserve. There was a difference in the tone of her silence and the set of her shoulders as she left her desk for the elevator.

"Let's go for a drink. I know a quiet bar not too far from here."

"Quiet? You?" but it didn't carry her normal snark.

"Yeah. C'mon. First round on me."

"Whatever." She slid off her chair and packed up as efficiently as always, ready to go in less than six minutes including a restroom break (he counted. Yes, it was creepy. No, he didn't care).

They walked in customary stride the few blocks to the bar, as ever, the critical distance apart that Castle longed to break: to draw her to him and walk with her within his arm, tucked by his side. Her words rang in his head: plangent, almost tolling. If it was the last night of your life. He'd known – he would never forget – how he had felt, frantically dialing and redialing and seeing the explosion from the sidewalk, minutes too late. He had thought that, though he had understood her terror, the satisfaction of the outcome and the weeks following had softened it. He wondered, suddenly, if he'd been wrong. She sounded like a woman who'd been contemplating her own mortality for far too long. The last night of your life.

The bar was indeed quiet, bright over the counter, dimming towards the back. Beckett, surprisingly, aimed directly for a small booth far from the counter and any bright lighting, dropped her purse and jacket in it following a brief inspection, and followed them down to the seat.

"White wine?" he asked. It was her usual choice.

"Vodka tonic, please. Ice."

He managed not to show his surprise. Beckett didn't often go for the hard stuff, and Castle understood from her history exactly why that was.

"Okay."

He exchanged compliments with the barman and returned with a glass of very fine single malt for himself and the requested vodka tonic for Beckett: sitting down with the usual space between them. Strangely, despite asking for it, she was in no hurry to drink. Castle sipped his Scotch and let the silence draw out: almost companionable. He could feel an odd undertow: with anyone else he'd have thought that they wanted to talk, spill out their thoughts and hopes and dreams – and nightmares, because she was staring into the glass as if it were strychnine and there was a pained crease between her elegant eyebrows. The glass turned in her long fingers, and turned, and turned.

"You didn't answer," she said, out of the blue.

"Uh?"

"Earlier. When I asked you what you would do if it was the last night of your life."

She looked up from the swirling liquid for the first time since he'd set it down.

"You didn't answer," she repeated.

That would have been because he didn't dare. If it were the last night of his life… he knew what he would do. He'd do what he hadn't done before the bomb, what for long, desperate, gruelling and agonised moments he'd thought he would never have the chance to do: he would kiss her as he'd always wanted to, hard and forceful and passionate and possessive and with all his tide of love within it and around her, and she would respond and be his. But he didn't dare. He took a sip of his Scotch.

"Never mind," she said, brisk and cool. "It was a dumb question." She lifted her own glass to her lips, set it down again, barely tasted. "I'd better get home. It's late."

"Don't you want your drink?"

"I thought I did, but..." She trailed off, picked up her purse, slung her jacket over one shoulder. Castle, scenting subtext but failing to understand, drained his measure.

"I'll walk you home," he said. There had been something, somewhere, behind her words, and it would come to him if he'd only let it be. She merely shrugged, somehow diminished and reserved again. Had she been any other woman, he'd have known it for disappointment, and expected to see the sting of tears in her eyes. But it was Beckett, who never accidentally revealed any scrap of emotion, and certainly never cried. Or... she never cried where anyone could see her.

Suddenly it became clear. She had wanted an answer, and she'd half-expected him to, well, make a declaration. She had to know how he felt, and she'd been giving him an opportunity. Opening a door. Oh, Beckett. Oh my love – and then he knew exactly what he had to do.

"You don't have to, I can get a cab," she said.

"Nope. It's a nice night, the stars are out, the moon is full" –

"So I should worry that you'll turn into a werewolf and rip my throat out in a back alley?"

"No. But being a werewolf would be totally cool."

She rolled her eyes, quite in the normal way, but they were still shuttered and dull, and (which Castle was sure she didn't know) liquid gleamed over them.

"Anyway, I'm going to walk you home."

And when they got there, he would answer her not-at-all-dumb question and then there would be no unhelpful subtext getting in the way.

The walk didn't take long, especially at Beckett's rapid pace. Castle concluded that, having (so she thought) semi-offered an opening to talk, and having had it (so she thought, again) closed off, she simply wanted to be alone and cover up all her feelings before she saw him in the bullpen again tomorrow.

Well, it wasn't going to happen that way. He rapidly formulated a plan, and despite her clear touch-me-not and please-go-home aura, walked her not just to her block door but calmly followed her into the elevator and along her corridor.

"Could I get a coffee?" he asked as they approached her door. For an awful instant, he thought she would refuse, sure that her lips were forming I want to be alone, but ingrained good manners won out.

"Okay."

Tension loomed in her spine and neck as she opened her apartment. He hadn't been here yet, and the developing awkwardness of her attitude surprised him. She wasn't usually awkward: but here was a half-felt shyness: almost timidity. Beckett was not normally timid. More... terrifying.

He followed her in and stared around, stock-still not two strides in. It wasn't – oh, God: it wasn't Beckett at all. It was empty. He hadn't thought... but of course she had had to start again, of course she wouldn't have replaced everything yet, of course her eclectic choice of furniture and decor couldn't have been replicated in just a few weeks.

"Coffee?" she gritted out, and he realised it wasn't the first time of asking.

"Please." He forced his feet to move towards the couch, bare of throws or cushions, and sat down. Shortly, a tray with mugs arrived on the low table in front of it. He examined the table.

"That's nice," he said, tracing the grain of the wood and the old-fashioned, curved legs with paw-feet at the ends – cabriole legs, his memory for trivia told him.

"Flea market," she admitted, "and then I got it stripped and re-polished. It's walnut."

Castle thought that the brief commentary, leaving out a substantial amount of detail, was very Beckett. Much like the table, in fact. A second or two later he recognised that his concentration on the table was very Castle – procrastination and avoidance. He swallowed, and prepared to re-open the earlier conversation.

"Um..." She wasn't even sitting close to him, and he couldn't see her face. All the air was surely draining from the room, because he couldn't catch a breath and his lungs were closing like his throat.

"Yeah?" It came out tired and small, as if everything were too much effort for her. Her mug clicked down, the coffee in it sloshing, joining his on the tray.

"Earlier..." he began, faltering. "Earlier you asked what I would do if it was the last night of my life."

"It doesn't matter. It was just a dumb question."

"It does matter," he bit, no longer prepared to accept evasions and suddenly not faltering at all. "It matters, because what I would do is this," and he leaned across, pulled her into his arms and lap and kissed her.

Beckett, unflatteringly, emitted a shocked gleeping sound, which was abruptly cut off by Castle's mouth taking hers. There was certainly no more gleeping, shocked or otherwise. Beckett's lips parted like a flower opening: gentle against his, and her sharp angles and stiff spine softened and curved in his arms to lean into his broad frame and let him cage and cosset her as he'd wanted to for months, as he'd desired more desperately with every minute she'd stayed at his loft – as he'd never been able to before.

He'd started almost tentatively, alert for any indication that he'd totally screwed up – it wasn't like screwing up was uncommon, for either of them – but as soon as her lips parted he dived in: immediately confident, sure, commanding and possessive. His arms tightened around her, his hand ran up and into her hair, curving around her skull and angling her perfectly for his conquest. She traced his jaw, cupped his face and then dropped her hand a little to curl around and over his shoulder, turning into him, cuddling closer. He ceased his exploration of her mouth, and guided her head to his shoulder, nestling her within his clasp and burying his nose in her hair.

"If it were the last night of my life," he murmured, "that's what I'd do." But he didn't let go of her, couldn't let go of her: never would let go of her, if he were granted his wishes.

She snuggled closer: quiet and still: peaceful for the first time, he thought, in weeks, if not months. Her head rested in the crook of his neck, her eyes closed and the lashes sweeping her sharp cheekbones, the fine-cut lines of her face. It occurred to him that she was on the drawn side of slender; a fraction too light, too narrow. It didn't reduce or mar her beauty, but a closer look told him that there were shadows beneath the lashes which didn't come from the lighting.

"If it were the last night of our lives, I'd hold you close with me: I wouldn't let you go. No-one should meet that dark night alone. I'd be there with you, and we'd go together."

"'To die will be an awfully big adventure'?" she quoted.

"I'd rather not die."

"Everybody dies," she whispered. "Eventually, sooner or later, everybody dies." It wasn't edged, or snarky. She had returned to that same odd maudlin mood as she'd been in earlier. Castle's heart wrenched. She wasn't thinking of him, or even herself. She was thinking of her mother: the far-off cadence and undertone taking her to that still white sepulchre of eleven years ago.

He simply held her as close as he'd said he would do if that long good night beckoned: knowing her mother hadn't gone there gently; sent by an unknown rage.

"Stay here," he murmured. "Stay here with me. Just...be together." Somehow, his words eased her, and she turned to be completely enclosed. Quiet serenity enfolded them. He thought she was asleep, and wondered whether sleep had been hard won and easier lost. He'd rarely seen her tired: or maybe it was simply that she'd never allowed him to see her tiredness. He stroked her back soothingly, as time passed unnoticed.

"If it had been the last night of my life," she breathed out, almost a sigh on his ears, "I would have wanted to spend it with you."

Castle swallowed, hard. She wasn't looking at him, eyes remaining shut, but the sudden tightness of her body, as if she were curling into herself, retreating... he had to find the right words, somewhere.

And in the fastness of his constant heart, he found them.

"You...don't have to wait that long," he offered up. "If you want... whenever you're ready, Beckett. Because I want to spend every night with you in my arms." He swallowed again. "You're already in my heart."

Her eyes opened, full of a soul-shattering hope; her hand clutched on his nape, and, slowly, she stretched up and met his lips, already half-way down. Her mouth was soft, almost tentative, unsure; but Castle, adept at Beckett-reading, was confident of her admission and intent on proving her right; proving to her that he would be there. He was strong yet gentle, carefully possessive, a slow-paced meeting of mouths that brought with it a sense of promise, of permanence. The heat was there, but banked: embers which at any point might flare and begin the blaze, but not yet. These moments were for something different: learning each other in a different way; closeness and comfort. Blazes and scorching could wait, branding each other with touch didn't need to happen immediately. Together, they had time.

They had time to kiss softly, to touch carefully, to learn together. Passion would come soon enough, no need to speed its journey. And so he didn't press, though earlier he had thought he would, but explored; didn't raid and ravage and insist through his kiss that she should surrender and succumb, but persuaded; as she did the same for him: her hands light about his face, whispering through his hair. She tasted of her coffee, and of coming home; she fitted him as perfectly as he'd ever hoped she would.

His kiss deepened as he began to explore more firmly, bringing a little power and passion to her response, but still careful, still leashed, still reining back his desire. She responded, bringing her own desire into play, and when her hands tightened on him and pulled his head closer he knew that he could start to change the game up.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Part two on Tuesday.