A/N: Well. Yes. I'm just gonna say it, Cops and Robbers if my favorite episode yet this season. Not that I didn't love Rise, but… LOVE. For this episode.

This is nothing special, but ah, well. I'm trying to get into the habit of publishing more of my stuff, rather than analyzing it to death and throwing it out, which happens to… 99.9 percent of what I write?

The cold steel of her gun presses against her skin, reminds her that she is helpless.

Rough asphalt scuffs under the soles of her shoes as she paces, caged off by the police tape fluttering soft in the light breeze. The sun slants against the towering structure of the bank, colors it too-bright and sinister, rigid angles making up the prison that holds her partner captive.

The sun is warm but her gun is cold, and if they kill hostages they will kill him first, and she can do nothing because there is nothing to be done.

The pavement is rough under her feet, and his name keeps time in her thoughts with the rhythm of her heart.

He sits still against the desk, eyes shut, body held as serenely as he can manage, carved out of granite so the others won't see him shaking. His fingernails dig half-moons in the flesh of his palms, knuckles gleaming white where they fist against the dark of his pant legs.

The too-bright lights catch the glittery reflection in the shiny patches of their captors' guns, sinister flashes of gleaming black that make his eyes sting. "Oh, Richard," his mother breathes. Her hands clutch his forearm, the note of fear in the undercurrents of her voice betraying what her stoic silhouette (held darkly in shadow with the sunlit window as its backdrop) will not.

"Shh," he soothes, soft. "She'll get us out."

The wide-eyed look she gives him resonates too much of his daughter's; tightens, like a noose, around his throat. "But what if-"

"No." Castle settles back against the desk, forces his fingers to unclench, splay against his bent knees. "We're partners. She'll get us out."

Martha exhales, grip loosening on his arm. Against her colorless face the stark red of her hair leaps out like flame, hotly vibrant in contrast with their grim surroundings. "I hope you're right."

"I am," he swears, and somewhere in the core of his being he doesn't just believe it; he knows.

Partners, after all. Always. That is them.

He is kneeling over the fallen man, sunlight painting ribbons of gold into his dark hair, softening the worry lines marked into his expression. Their eyes meet and his widen, wide and dark and helpless, and she wants to go to him, to get him out of here, to make him safe, but instead she meets his stare levelly and then does her job.

He is unharmed as far as she can see, the lines of him sturdy and strong under her furtively searching stare, and she finds the tightness in her chest easing just a notch, letting her breathe again. She talks to the man on the ground but she's speaking to Castle, her partner, as her hand slips into his and grips tightly as though maybe that can fix this, if she holds on long enough.

As though holding on will keep him with her.

Instead, she has to walk out. It is against her own best judgment that she looks back, catches his gaze, the familiar face half-hidden in shadow. They stay silent, but her eyes say I'll get you out and his say I know.

The doors shutter shut behind her, too final, and she if left clutching the note he gave her, all she has here of him.

The ties on his hands hurt, dig into his flesh. He wiggles his fingers to keep blood in them, winces at the jolt of tingling that goes straight up to his elbows. Trapper John pushes him roughly into a place against the bars, sneers at him behind the mask, pushes the muzzle of his gun against Castle's chest.

"Tell your girl hi for me."

Castle stares back coldly, unflinching despite the tense pressure of the gun against his collarbone. Trapper John stares him down a moment longer, withdraws the weapon and gestures for the others.

He feels the explosion as a rattle in his bones first – (IloveyouKate) – just a fraction of a heartbeat's time before the world goes up in flame.

She stumbles out of the van, barely keeps her feet. The world sways and rocks, ground rattling, legs threatening to mutiny and in her throat is her heart, in the bank is her heart, and she reaches for it, a pitiful effort that brings her hand out just past her hipbone, but her fingers close on empty air.

I didn't tell-

Murky spots take up residence in her vision, swimming dark and dangerous, blacking out the world. She hears her breathing rattle through her ears, raw and stripping her to the core, because she's breathing and he's-

I didn't-

Uniforms blur past in the edges of her vision, sharply accented by the setting sun, framed with eddies of smoke. She blinks against the rubble, holds herself together with sheer willpower, like scotch tape clinging to her and keeping her from falling apart right here. Her scar burns, a lancing pain that runs all up and down the ugly twist of skin. She fists her hand and presses it to the token of her shooting and- and-

The captain is at her shoulder, heavy brow furrowed. He's holding a bulletproof vest in his hand, a question in his stare. She grabs the proffered vest with one hand, puts the other on the cold metal of her gun, and nods. Nods. Makes herself nod. Her partner needs her. He could still-

I-

Her teeth sink into the inside of her cheek and her mouth fills with the taste of blood.

pleasepleaseplease.

The explosion knocks everything away from him for a moment; his head smacks the wall and his ears ring, a deafening roar that he screws his eyes shut against. Panic worms its way in through the confusion, resonates like her apartment going up in flames, like the explosion and the shower of broken glass that damn near broke him, right there, on the smooth sidewalk, oh, please, no-

Not that. His mother is nudging at his arm, saying his name. He blinks and finds he can see, the dust has settled, his ears still ring but he can hear her. This is not that. This is the bank and he is still breathing and she-

A different voice says his name, pitched sharp, raw, pained – I knew, I knew – and he lurches forward, calls for her.

"Beckett," he says, and when she turns the corner everything is all right.

She goes to him in a daze, sinks to her knees on the bank floor because relief blindsides her so hard and fast that the ability to stand abandons her in a rush. The floor is cold, her palms braced on it, her eyes drinking in the sight of him safe and-.. He is alive and he is here, and his face lights up like the sun when he sees her, and she wants to- to-…

No. Nothing else. This is enough, this here, him smiling and alive and breathing and safe. She cuts the tie on his wrists and reaches out to touch the hem of his jacket, feels the warmth of him, breathes because he is breathing. She knows she is grinning like a fool, but can't help it, can't contain herself.

He's okay.

Always, always. This is them.

The sunlight hits him hard, as he half-stumbles out onto the pavement, out of the prison he half-wondered if he'd ever leave.

(no, he knew he would, knew it)

(he told her so, she never listens, he was right.)

The sunlight is sharp and stings his eyes, and it glints on the fierce red of his daughter's hair, and she runs to him and he hugs her, wraps her in his arms and pulls her safe against him. She talks in a rush, but he just cups the back of her hand and sighs into relief so intense it almost hurts him.

Somewhere along the way he looks up, and sees her, strong and sturdy held in warm suspension by the sunset, his partner, Kate.

He knew. Knows. Will always know.

Everything is all right.

She's going home – it's been a long day, a long day – and he stops her at the door, tilts his head to the side. "Hell of a day," he murmurs, echo of something still sharp enough in memory to send the ghost of a freezer's cold flitting across her skin. His fingers curl on the doorjamb lightly, etched-on concern in his expression backlit by the pleasant warmth of his loft.

"Hell of a day," she repeats. She can't shake it, the tension knotted still in the back of her neck, behind her eyes, the lingering pull in her scar.

"You'll be all right getting home?" he asks, and in his voice is a note she knows, one that promises the slightest misgiving on her part will be answered with an invitation, one he wants to give anyway. But she can't, can't. This day has left her raw and tired and as long as she knows he's safe-

"I'll be all right," she says quietly, looking back at him. "I'll take a cab."

"If you're sure," he replies slowly, doubtful. "You could-"

"Castle," she sighs. Her hand touches the hem of his jacket, thumb rubbing over the fabric as she looks down. "Not-… I'll be fine. I can't-"

"Okay," he relents, when her response trails off into weighted silence. His hand lifts to brush hers, and she grips onto it, and then she can't help herself. In a moment of impossible relief, desperate need to make sure this is real, she puts her arms around his neck and she breathes, feels his breath shudder out in surprise, feels his arms close around her. He is warm and sturdy and her fingers curl against the blades of his shoulders, and his hands clasp at the small of her back, and they stay like this until she's convinced.

"I'm so glad you're okay," she murmurs. Face pressed into his neck, eyes shut tight, she thanks the universe for letting her have him back.

"I knew you'd get me out," he replies, heavy with exhaustion but warm, sure. "That's what we do, right?"

She lingers on the moment, soaks in it, because he's out of the bank and he is not dead and he is here- "But some of us more than others, apparently," she sighs, stepping back, arms dropping to her sides. He matches her smile, tilts his head a bit.

"I'm sure you'll have a chance to catch up. I have a knack for getting into these situations, seems like."

"Yeah, well." She inhales, exhales. "No rush. Please."

His eyes spark with mirth. "Why, Kate. I'm touched."

She gives him an eyeroll because it's easier, simpler. "Paperwork, Castle. Always a mountain of it after these things." She grins, reaches for the door again, and Castle gives her a mock-wounded look before his eyes soften to something she can't put words to, not yet.

"Until tomorrow," is all he says, as she steps out the door and into the hall.

"Until tomorrow," she echoes, looking back at him for just a moment as she had done in the bank. Here, though, he is safe, framed in his doorway, that lingering trace of a smile not quite leaving his mouth. The familiarity strikes her with an unsettling vividness, how very well she knows him, but she tamps it down and just returns his tired smile.

This is them.

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