A/N: This is a three-shot set sometime after 4x17 "Once Upon A Crime" but before 4x19 "47 Seconds". It's an exploration of what might have been for Castle and Beckett, and what could be for all of us, if we just speak out, say what we mean, ask for what we want from life.

The final two chapters are already written. I'm learning my lesson. :) I will probably post them a day apart at most.

With thanks to WRTRD once more for listening to my grumbling, reading random paragraphs and telling me they make sense, and for reminding me what a great show St. Elsewhere was of its time and type.

"What art offers is space - a certain breathing room for the spirit."

- John Updike

The Space Between Us

Chapter 1

It comes to Castle in fragments and snatches, this nagging thought that forms on the periphery of his brain, something just out of reach that seems to dart away every time he attempts to turn, mentally speaking, and look at it square on. It's ephemeral and yet in recurs. For days it recurs, forcing him to focus. It forces him to quiet his busy-boy brain and home in for once on what his own mind is trying to tell him. Like holding onto a dream after waking, it takes effort, powers of recall he has in abundance, put to good use this time for his own benefit and that of Kate's, if he's right and the planets align.

It distills, eventually, after a lot of hard work on his part. He sits by the window and stares at nothing while he lets his brain meander. He takes a bath – an infrequent luxury – lingering until the water runs cold and his fingers and toes prune like plump Medjool dates, his mind filled to the brim. It distills and coalesces into a series of interlinked questions. The questions are general at first, seem general. But then nothing that comes out of his head is ever general for very long. He's learned that over the years he's spent writing, worrying a plot point into submission, figuring out the details of a fictional crime, always thinking on more than one plane at a time, and more recently, helping the NYPD with cases that, on the face of it, seem like stone whodunits and which, without Castle's input, might well have remained unsolved on more than one occasion.

The answer, or maybe it's just the fully formed question, finally comes to Castle one bright morning, one of those days where the world seems to be waiting just for you when you throw the curtains wide or raise the blinds. The sun is shining, a gentle heat filled with the promise of a warm, clear day ahead. And it comes to him in that instant that if he's right, if he's reading the signs correctly, they're really not so far apart at all.

He's not at all sure what causes this burst of clarity. Maybe it's the feeling of having defied death that he still retains from having made it out of the bank alive with his mother several weeks ago. Maybe it's the memory of the look on Kate's face when she found him amongst the stour* and the rubble. It was a look you give someone you love. The very definition of love, of need, of how important he is to her was encapsulated in her smile that day when she found him alive, knelt down in front of him, her fingers grasping his lapels as if she was afraid to let go, like he might drift off somewhere out of reach, as if she couldn't quite believe he was really there.

Or maybe it was how close to her he felt when they finally sat down to endure his mother's play and, instead of taunting him with the embarrassing details, real and imagined, that his mother chose to reveal of his life, she had taken his hand and leant her support. In that moment they felt like partners in everything. Kate Beckett had sat there in front of his mother and child and had held his hand until the farce of a play was over and their hands were forced apart to applaud his mother's rosy version of her own reality. He can still feel her slim, cool fingers wrapping around his own if he thinks hard enough, can bring to mind the weight of their hands resting on top of his knee. The memory softens his heart and makes his pulse quicken. Every. Single. Time.

He goes out onto his roof deck balancing a tray filled with orange juice, a steaming cup of coffee and a bowl of some fiber-rich granola concoction his mother swears by these days, and he sits in the early sunshine and tries to figure out a way to profit from his revelation. It's a big question, that's for sure: what prevents people from speaking out, from saying what they really mean and from asking for what they really want in life? And what prevents the two of them specifically?

The other question, the one that brings up the rear, that dogs his steps like a vicious wolf snapping at his heels, is more worrisome: what's the worst that can happen? It's this question that holds him in check and prevents him from just picking up the phone and blurting out his heart before they backslide any further away from precious smiles of adoration and public handholding.

Because they inch forward, closer to the line time and again, and then, like the tide, retreat for a while to float in this in-between space they've made for themselves. On bad days it's a kind of purgatory, a waiting room for a better life to come. He hopes. On good days it's a state of ecstatic anticipation, a delicious prelude to the main act that he'd gladly forestall forever if it means he's almost there. They're almost there.

He lets the sun warm his face as he eats his breakfast, and his mind wanders in the way that it's apt to do. He has to force himself to confront the issue he's grappling with because in his excitement at realizing how close they are, he's forgotten to work on the how of this knotty problem. He's jumped a step ahead and begun to allow himself to imagine claiming his prize. Because it's quite possible that he could say one sentence, choose the right question, catch her in the perfect mood, and in that simple act of bravery, he could claim his personal equivalent of a lottery win – a life with Kate Beckett. If he were braver, if she were braver, if together they could just say what they felt and what they meant and then hug it out…whatever happens.

He just needs to find the words – the key to the riddle - that will unlock the future he's certain they both want and deserve.

When he goes back into the kitchen after breakfast there's a missed call on his phone. The missed call is from Beckett. He hits redial without pausing for breath.

"Hey. Did we get a body?" he asks the second she answers, breathless despite his lack of physical exertion.

"And good morning to you." He can hear her smile as she speaks, her tone amused and teasing, rightly chiding him for his lack of manners and any proper greeting.

He shakes his head, runs a hand through his messy hair. "Sorry. You're right. Let me start over." He takes a deep breath, pauses and then smiles. "Good morning, detective."

His warm deployment of her title earns him a Beckett grin that he can clearly hear down the line when she says, "That's better."

"Were you…phoning for anything in particular?"

He kicks himself when he hears her voice falter, uncertainty leaching in. "I…I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

"No," he rushes to reassure her. "Just…enjoying a leisurely breakfast. You?"

And then the smile is back, her voice soft with it, intimate. "I'm at my desk. Castle, are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, Beckett. I'm peachy."

Kate laughs. "Peachy?"

"I'm good," he assures her, an inkling that she can tell there's something going on with him, something on his mind, reminding him again – they're not so very far apart.

"Are you— Did you plan on coming in today?" she asks, and he imagines he detects a note of hope in her voice amidst the bashful hesitation, and it lifts him further.

"Do you need me?"

There's a pregnant pause before she answers. "You asked me that question once before." She sounds like she's flirting now.

He matches her husky tone with a cigar-soaked voice steeped in coffee and cognac. "I believe I did."

"Didn't turn out so well for you that day," she points out, before he hears her take a sip of something.

"You didn't answer me, as I recall."

He hears the squeak of her chair as she sits up straight, on alert. "Are you saying what happened in the bank that day was my fault?" she demands, humor tap dancing over every syllable now that they're safely on the other side of that particular nightmare.

"Not your fault, no," he assures her.

"But? Castle, I detect a but in there," she probes, enjoying this particular little skirmish with him.

"Maybe that's just your guilt talking," he teases, laughing when she lets out an infuriated growl.

There's a long pause while neither of them speaks and then he hears Kate clearing her throat. "So…"

"So…" Castle mimics, knowing how frustrated this will make her. He knows fine well what her "So" is supposed to prompt – a confirmation from him that he's coming in to the precinct today. He chooses to leave her dangling, make her work for it a little harder.

He hears her blowing out a breath, imagines her bangs flying up off her forehead. "Are you coming in today to grace us with your presence?"

Bingo!

He knows it takes a lot for her to ask, especially since this is the second time she's had to do it in the space of a single phone call.

He smiles. "Tell me you need me, Beckett, and—"

"Oh, you are NOT holding me hostage, Richard Castle," she laughs, her chair squeaking again as she moves around in her state of animation.

"So…you don't need me. Well, I guess I'll just spend the day here then. I have plenty of writing to—"

"Get your ass in here. I need you, okay?" she whispers feverishly into the phone so no one but Castle can hear her beg.

His heart is pounding and his face feels hot, like he's blushing even though he's home alone.

"I…I'm sorry. I think this might be a bad line, detective. Could you possibly repeat that last part? I'm having a little trouble hearing." He grins as he speaks, imagining Kate rolling her eyes at this last piece of fakery, pushing his luck like he's done since the beginning.

"When hell freezes over, Castle."

"I'll see you mid-morning then," he says, laughing with her when the sound of her triumphant "I win," comes sailing down the line at him.

Too restless for a cab, he takes the subway, and then walks the extra four blocks to her favorite coffee shop for the white chocolate and macadamia nut muffins they only get in on Tuesdays. It's a little over the top and kind of ridiculous, it's only Tuesday after all, just some anonymous, not remotely special middle-of-the-week day. But this is his version of walking over hot coals for her, or as close as he's able to get in Manhattan on a Tuesday morning at short notice. So he goes the extra mile, though not literally, and he gets her coffee and a bag of pastries while he kneads his thoughts into shape inside his head.

Her parents were both lawyers, so she's used to structured, dispassionate, fact-based arguments. He bets their family dinners were spent debating, furiously, and not just whether Bobby Ewing's shower scene comeback in Dallas was the lamest "it was all a dream" episode in a TV show when compared to the series finale of St. Elsewhere** and that infamous snow globe device. Oh, the letdown of it all. The feeling of being cheated out of six years' worth of emotional investment, not to mention (and Martha felt the need to mention it more than once) preventing all those actors from ever having a shot at a reunion show and another pay check out of the same gig, so thoroughly did they wreck the series with their "it was all in little Tommy's head" final scene.

So, yeah, he's sure her parents discussed weightier topics and with much less bias towards self-interest if Kate's upbringing is any indication of the principled woman she's grown into today. But his attempts at turning their issue into a structured argument don't fair so well. A list of pros and cons for barging blindly into a relationship with her now sound inappropriate, dispassionate at worst, not to mention far too contrived. Castle is a man who feels deeply, who loves fully when he loves, and whose mind cannot be bent to the rigors of the law and its pared-back structures even to win Kate Beckett's heart. Better he appeal to her from a place of love and emotion with romance and loyalty than the cold-hearted sanctuary of logic.

An hour or so later he puts her coffee on her desk, leaning in close so he can present it to her over her shoulder. His arm brushes her hair as he does so, but she doesn't start. She's been expecting him. Hell, maybe she smelt the coffee all the way up the elevator shaft. For whatever reason, she doesn't jump or reprimand, but she is blushing when she turns her chair towards his in anticipation of him sitting down.

He hands her the bag of pastries and she accepts with a grin of girlish delight, opening the paper sack and sticking her nose inside to inhale with the deepest sense of sweet pleasure.

"You took your time," she says by way of opening salvo, clever eyes dancing with the gauntlet she's just thrown down.

Seems they're both in a playful, boundary-pushing mood today. Perfect.

"Should have said you were desperate, Beckett. I'd have got here a whole lot faster."

"A lady never begs," she fires back, stunning him into speechless silence, while she takes a long, noisy, appreciative drag on her coffee. "Thanks for this," she adds, lifting her cup to toast him while he's still gawping at her froth-decorated lips, which she licks while he watches, leaving him in need of more caffeine of his own or just something to do with himself that isn't staring at his partner's glistening mouth with naked longing.

They sit quietly like this, sneaking glances, trading amused smirks, a few quiet words of clever banter now and then, caught up in one another while the bullpen rattles on around them, until their coffee and muffins are done and playtime, for Kate at least, is over.

She trashes her coffee cup with a reluctant sigh and returns to the open folder in front of her with the dedication and focus that he has come to expect and admire.

Castle takes a deep breath, licks his lips and then draws himself up to his full height in his chair.

"Can I talk to you?" he asks, leaning in close to the corner of her desk.

Kate puts down her pen and sits back in her chair. "Sure. What's up?"

"Maybe…" He looks around furtively. "Maybe not here."

"You…need privacy for this…talk?"

"I think that would be better."

"Okaaay. Should…should I be worried? I mean is there a problem? You're not sick or anything?" she asks, her brow knitting together in concern.

"No!" he laughs. But it comes out sounding hollow and frankly a little scared.

"And Alexis and Martha. They're fine too?"

"Everyone is fine, Beckett."

"Okay. Good," she says, a hand pressed flat over her heart like she's settling herself. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Did you not hear the part where I said not here?"

"Right. Sorry. It's…" She shakes her head at her own need, at this wanting to know impulse she carries around with her everywhere.

"A detective thing, I know," he reassures her.

When he still sits there, waiting eagerly, like a dog with its leash in its mouth, she looks at him with even more surprise.

"Did you need me to go with you now?"

"Now would be good."

Kate checks her father's watch. "Castle, it's just after eleven. I can't just—" she shrugs, looking around her workplace in helpless frustration; frustration that she can't say yes to him, as she'd so clearly like to.

He smacks his forehead to demonstrate the realization of his own idiocy. "Of course you can't. I didn't quite think this through. I'm sorry."

"Look, I'm stuck here doing paperwork. But you don't look like you're going to last an hour sitting there with nothing to do. How about you come back and get me at the end of shift? If we catch a case in the meantime, I'll give you a call."

She smiles at him tenderly, trying to soften the blow of telling him no for the right reasons.

Castle twists his fingers together, nerves forcing him to make one last ditch effort at doing this now. "You couldn't take an early lunch?"

She leans in close to whisper, "Gates would fry us both. Is this really so important that…" She trails off, watching him begin to nod. "It is?" He nods again. "Now you really have me worried."

She stands abruptly and Castle watches as she bends down to grab her purse from the bottom drawer. She has a light sweater in her hand when she turns back to look at him, her lip drawn between her teeth in momentary hesitation. Something she sees in his expression or in his eyes decides the matter for her.

"Hey, Ryan," she quietly calls. "Can you cover for me with Gates? Castle and I have this…this thing we need to do."

Ryan smirks, looking first at Beckett and then at the writer. "You guys have a thing? A thing you need to do?"

"Are you just going to sit there repeating everything I say?" she demands, her hands falling to her hips.

"No. It's just—"

"What kind of a thing?" chips in Esposito, always the braver, cockier one of the two.

"A private thing," Kate snaps. "Will you help us or not?" she glares.

They walk out to the elevator side-by-side, both thrown a little off-kilter by whatever this is and by leaving work recklessly early with neither excuse nor plan nor a full explanation. They exchange glancing blows of shoulders, elbows, and arms as they walk close to one another despite the idle chatter Kate knows will have erupted in the wake of their mysterious departure.

"Castle, this better be good," she murmurs, as the elevator doors slide closed and they turn to face the front. "They're going to be taunting us for weeks after that little scene."

A/N: Next chapter up tomorrow or the day after. Final chapter by the end of the weekend. Thanks for reading.

* Stour, noun, Scottish: Dust forming a cloud or deposited in a mass. e.g. "demolition stour clung thickly to the walls."

**St. Elsewhere was a US hospital drama that ran for six seasons from 1982-88. In the series finale they showed the autistic son of one of the characters staring into a snow globe which contained a miniature version of the hospital, St. Eligius, the clear implication being that all the drama that had taken place over the last six seasons had been generated in the mind of this autistic boy and was therefore purely a figment of his imagination. Needless to say it caused an uproar at the time and ensured the show could never be revived.