The best thing to give a woman is something she said she wanted when she didn't think you were listening.

For so long, Kate had been an idea. A theory. An abstract possibility, someone who wasn't grounded in reality. He thinks, though, that she'd had him from the first. The sway of her hips, the allure of the dare in her throwaway line. "You have no idea."

He had wanted her from the start, and gradually that want had turned into something more. A tentative friendship. A partnership. Love. What he doesn't quite know is how they got here; no matter how invested he was in the story, he was more invested in her. And thus, more distracted.

He's lost some confidence over the years. It's funny, he thinks. He looks at Kate, and she's a different person to the one he nearly scared off over his fan mail all those years ago. There's a depth to her that he hadn't imagined, even back then when he'd tried to get a read on her. But he's a different person too, and as far as he's concerned, that's where the problem lies.

She's become braver by the year. "I'm not going to be the kind of person that I want to be until I put this thing to rest," she'd said. She's put in the time, done the hours in therapy. Castle, on the other hand, feels himself becoming less self assured, less able to express himself outside his books. He's more and more afraid that Ricky Rodgers is looming in the rear view mirror.

For so long he'd let himself believe his own press. Only his family could really reel him in; the hours spent within the walls of the loft, playing laser tag and hanging out with Alexis, had always been demonstrative of the man he wanted to be, deep down. His mother wasn't entirely wrong in her long acquired habit of reading him the worst reviews; she'd taken her role in bringing him back down to earth seriously. Looking back, he had to admit that while he questioned her method, he could see her point.

Time spent with Beckett, with the rest of the team at the Twelfth, had chipped away at that facade and the last of whatever bravado and bluster he used to have; his self admiration was long gone, and with it the last of his confidence, exploded as surely as if the bomb had gone off that day in the apartment with Kate.

It has been both the best and worst year of his life, he reflects. Twice married, twice divorced, and he's finally in the relationship he wants to be in, the one that counts. Four years of "never gonna happen land" had turned into something amazing and unexpected overnight.

Castle wasn't kidding when he told Kate to look at his life, because his dreams do come true.

But his nightmares have also become a reality this year.

Castle had lost Alexis in a department store for a mere half hour when she was a kid, and up until this year he'd thought that was as bad as his personal tragedy was ever going to get. In spite of the horror that he sees every day, the horror that he writes, he'd thought he was immune.

Not true.

His daughter had been kidnapped. He may have met his father, but the price of getting to know his father had been too high; he'd believed his daughter was dead or dying. Knowing that his father had willfully chosen his duty to his job, rather than his family, still stings a little too. Oh, he gets it. After all, he couldn't be with Beckett without understanding how seriously she takes her job. Likewise, he understands his father's choice on an intellectual level. But Castle's not known for his rationality and his less logical side covets the childhood he never had.

Rick also has a pessimistic streak, and there's a part of him that figures their luck has to end at some point. In this year's battle between bliss and pain he knows something has gotten lost along the way; he just doesn't know what. An innocence, perhaps? A world in which, among other things, Kate doesn't know the lengths he'll go to in order to try and keep the people he loves safe.

He's not proud of torturing that guy when Alexis was taken. Far from it. But he knows that he'd do it again, as surely as he would have let Bracken die, had he been the one to crack that case.

Kate had spent hours frozen in place on that bomb, and he'd stood with her as long as he could. He still doesn't know what it was that had made him stay, let him leave, and then made him return, sans vest but with coffee in hand. The belief, maybe, that if he could go rogue and get his daughter back from Paris, he could remain stoically by Kate's side and keep her safe.

He's not under any illusion; in spite of his overwhelming fear and negativity, he has grown this year. The threats they've faced have changed him. So many times, though, especially lately, he's been tempted to cut and run.

But he is yet to figure out a way to run from himself, from his own demons and doubt. In any case, running without Kate? Not an option. "Let me take you someplace, Kate. Someplace you'll be safe," he'd offered back in May, without knowing how many times he would wish they had both gone. Anywhere.

Unbidden, the memory of one of their cases surfaces- someone else who they'd figured had been planning on taking off, until they'd realized. He wasn't running away.

"He wasn't running away. He was going to propose." Castle had beamed. He'd worked it out. He'd held the ring out to Beckett, and she'd taken it from him; their eyes locking for a moment longer than was comfortable. The surprise on her face had amused him. Maybe that was how- No. He'd stopped himself, scoffing at the idea. He wasn't going to propose; never again. Not to Beckett, not to anyone. Not even in jest.

"I swear," his mother had said later. "Men act as though there's some cosmic reward for crazy proposals. And what a woman really wants is a man down on one knee, tears in his eyes, ring in his hand."

"My proposal to Gina was very romantic," Castle had defended, but his heart hadn't been in it. Defending any part of his relationship with Gina was a path he didn't need to go down.

"A balloon ride is lovely, but not in February," Martha had countered, and he'd nodded.

"Her hand was shaking so much from the cold, it was difficult getting that ring on," he'd agreed. His mother had tilted her head in agreement, and he'd shrugged. He never wanted to get married again.

He's never held back like this before, but the risk has never been this great before. But his mother is right. Castle groans. She's so very right. His mother, who typically breezes in and out of the loft, has paused mid flight, only to take the time to dispense her own personal brand of wisdom. Martha has seen something in him, but in Kate too, that he's been too shortsighted to see.

He's deathly afraid, but there's nothing to be afraid of, not really. Not knowing would be worse, but he does know. In spite of their fight, in spite of their appalling lack of communication in the last few weeks, Beckett loves him. She loves him.

Castle thinks he's spent so long loving Kate that he's never stopped to give proper recognition to the fact she loves him back. He's been telling himself that he's treading gently, that he's testing the waters, and he's failed to recognize that he's not just a boyfriend. No, deep down he knows. He's her partner, in every sense of the word, the person with whom she is diving into life.

He answers his phone on the first ring; in spite of that, he's almost reluctant to speak to her. He needs more time. He needs to get himself together; maybe rehearse a little. The revelations haven't come easy and he doesn't know how he's going to get the words out. He takes a deep breath when she suggests the park, agreeing. He doesn't have to ask which park.

He grabs his jacket and strides back into his office. Or, as he likes to think of it, his Batcave. He remembers the first time she'd appeared on his doorstep, ready to work theory away from the precinct. He steps behind his desk, opening the unlocked top drawer and reaching in and closing his hand over the small black box. He's had the ring there for the last couple of months, had moved it from the safe after Valentine's Day. He'd wanted to be able to look at it, and he thinks he'd somehow hoped Beckett would find it on her own. He snorts, now, at his own stupidity.

He opens the box once more, runs the tip of his index finger across the inside of the platinum band, and he takes a deep breath. He smiles. He's done dragging his heels. He's ready for this, and he thinks she is too.

A/N: So very many thanks to both Trish and Kylie for whipping this into shape. Above. And beyond. Seriously. They apparently appointed themselves official ass kickers, cheerleaders and betas, and I couldn't be happier!

If you're reading "Falling is like this", I can assure you it's anything but forgotten, but I'm eager to get this done before Season Six commences! Not long to wait now!