A/N: My version of the 47 Seconds post-ep. Because I can't stand any more contrite and depressed versions of Beckett, no matter how much more realistic they may be.

He swallowed slowly, letting the scotch scrape over his palate and throat on its way down.

He was alone in his office, laptop screen blinking back at him almost an hour after sending Jacinda home with the car service. It was midnight, and he hadn't written a word in days.

He had used writing, and Jacinda, as his excuses for staying away, and after Beckett had met his blonde distraction at the precinct, she'd seemed only too happy that he had stayed away.

What he didn't understand were the looks that had come before her anger. Confusion and even a flash of pain painted her features when Jacinda first appeared. He had the monopoly on pain-she had no claim to it after her big reveal the week prior. And why should she care if he's moved on? If anything, it should make her feel better, assuage the guilt and the pressure he hoped were weighing on her with her secret.

He finished the last of his scotch and stood up to refill his glass. He had been out with this woman, beautiful, bubbly, happy woman, seven times in as many days. He loved that she let him take her to five-star restaurants, let him drive her around in his Ferrari, didn't mind the flash of the paparazzi following them around at the club opening the night before.

But when he kissed her, something was... off. All the giddy thrill and the butterflies and the pounding heart were just... absent. His lips were going through the motions, totally disconnected from his body. Well, maybe not his body, but certainly his brain and his heart and his soul. All of those parts were still otherwise occupied, despite his best efforts.

And they hadn't slept together. His whole purpose in starting something new had been to get his mind off Kate, and the surest way would be to get his body on to a beautiful woman's. Jacinda was a sweet girl and very pretty, and certainly very willing to provide a distraction of any, and he meant any, kind.

But every time they were alone, clothes getting rumpled, hair pushed askew, a visceral, sick feeling came over him and he had to stop. Tonight it had been so obvious it was embarrassing. She'd shifted to sit on his lap on the couch and he'd physically moved her off on to the cushion beside him and stood up to pace.

The look in her eyes as she watched him disengage reminded him of Kate, and again he wondered why the hell this should bother the detective so much. Jacinda had, understandably, felt a bit put off by his odd behavior, and she'd left soon after.

Now, here he stood pouring more liquor into his glass, despite its absolute failure to fill any of the emptiness inside him.

When he heard the loud knock, he was glad his mother had taken Alexis away for the weekend—they didn't need to be privy to his first fight with this new woman. The knock came again, more forceful this time, and accompanied by an unmistakable voice.

"Castle?"

Oh god, what was Kate doing here at midnight on a Saturday? His first instinct was to ignore her and hope she assumed he was still out, but then he thought maybe something was wrong with a case or with the boys. And hell, she could pick his lock if she really wanted to get in, and then how would it look, with him cowering behind his scotch in his office?

He took his drink to the door with him, though, hoping he could bluff her into thinking his date was still here.

He opened the door a crack, and his jaw hit the ground.

She stood in his hallway in the highest black heels he'd ever seen her wear, short, curve-hugging black dress peeking out from beneath her long black coat. Her hair was down, curls spilling over her shoulders, dark make-up intensifying the almost predatory look in her eyes.

"Beckett?" he croaked out. "What are you doing here?"

She grabbed the edge of his door and wedged it open, stepping past him, the hollow sound of her heels echoing as she stalked into his living room.

Everything that had gone dormant over the course of the past week now slammed into his heart, his gut, his head. Was she here to torture him? Hadn't she done enough damage over the past 10 months?

After what was probably an unreasonable pause, he finally shut the door and followed her with leaden feet. Whatever she was doing, he knew his heart would come out of it in smaller, less recognizable pieces.

She hadn't turned, still stood facing his bookshelves, hands on her hips.

"I hate to sound like a broken record, but, what are you doing here?"

He was doing his best to maintain the cool, callous tone he'd used on her all week.

"I figured I'd be interrupting something with your blonde."

She was spitting venom, voice as icy as the day she'd inadvertently revealed her secret in the middle of an interrogation.

"I can't see how that's any of your business."

She turned at that, eyes sparking.

"Really? Because up until a week ago, I thought it was my business."

She nearly closed the distance between them in three strides.
He fought the urge to take a step back.

"I can't imagine why."

She blinked once, long and slow. A breath flared her nostrils. When she spoke again, her voice was so deep, so low, he had to strain to make it out.

"Are you going to try to tell me you haven't been in this with me? That I've been imagining all the looks and the touches and the invitations?"

Her gaze flicked to his lips and back up to his eyes. He couldn't open his mouth, had no acceptable lie to counter her truth.

"I don't know why you chose now to change your mind. Why you decided to give up on me at the very moment when I thought we were almost there." Her voice climbed to a fiery crescendo. "But I am not about to stand aside and let this diversion you've picked to be my substitute walk away with you. I'm not letting you do this, not to yourself, and not to me."

She had moved closer, standing with her face inches away, her heels evening her eyes with his.

"I've worked for almost a year to get better at this. At being able to tell you how I feel."

This was really rich. She'd known for a year exactly how he felt, and what did she do? Strung him along, never even gave him the courtesy of telling him she didn't feel the same. But now she wants to tell him. Too fucking late.

"Fine, Beckett, how do you feel?"

Her eyes flashed defiance, and maybe something like fear, and then she grabbed his shirtfront, hauled him against her, and crushed her lips against his. Her tongue insinuated itself between his lips, and he moaned into her mouth as he opened for her. She wrapped one arm around his neck, not letting go of her grip on his button-down. Her fingers snaked into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him closer.

For a spit second, he stood frozen, so stunned by her attack he didn't know what to do with his hands. And then something in his brain clicked into place, and he couldn't find enough silky skin or firm flesh or chestnut curls to satisfy his seeking hands. She let out a grunt of frustration when he forced her to let go of him to push her coat from her shoulders, but their mouths never parted, and he was clinging to her again before she could change her mind and step away.

Once tongues had explored warm depths, teeth had nipped at swollen lips, breath had been shared, he felt her easing back, pulling herself together. She parted from him only to fall right back in as he chased her, held her close with fingers wound into her hair, massaging her scalp. But she was intent on pausing, god he hoped it was only a pause, and she pulled back ever so slightly. He opened his eyes, half-afraid he was held captive in an alcohol-induced fantasy, but hers were looking back, green and gold through her feathered lashes.

When she spoke, breathless from their kiss, the words rushed out, washed over him.

"I love you, too."

His eyes widened as the totality of her words hit him. She'd said she loved him, too. She'd said the words and admitted her lie without even knowing it was why he'd given up on them in the first place.

His heart was suddenly so full, it overruled his brain telling him he should still be angry, still want an apology. But what more apology did he need with her in his arms, kissing him and coming clean?

In that moment, it all washed away. In that moment, he was the man who he always had been, the one who wanted nothing more than to love her and be loved in return.

He was still searching her eyes, trying to convince himself that it was real, when a flicker of doubt crossed her face. All of a sudden it hit him-she thought he didn't love her anymore.

Ridiculous woman.

"Am I too late?"

She was holding her breath. He tightened his hold and pulled her into him again. Whispered desperately against the curve of her neck.

"Almost."

He returned to her lips and kissed her again, this time tenderly, with all the hope and possibility that he'd been absolutely sure were lost forever. As he detached his lips, rising on his toes to kiss her on the forehead, he murmured through a smile:

"Horseshoes and hand grenades."

He brushed his nose against hers.

"What?"

He pulled back just far enough to see her eyes, still unsure. He smiled his first real smile since last May as he explained.

"Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."

A/N:

I have her side of it also, if anyone wants to hear it. But with the plethora of 47 seconds fics, this may not make the cut. Let me know. I'm also now on Tumblr: KathrynChristie -KC