A/N: I broke my foot two weeks ago and it's annoying. Thankfully, my mind's been occupied because we're approaching D-Day and we've got lots of spoilers and pics and snippets flying around. And we've been rewarded with the awesomeness of the first promo of the season! Wasn't it more than great? I can't be more excited...

Anyway, as the promo gives us new post 'Always' material, a new avalanche of 'morning after' fics was in order. Here's my contribution.

This first part is not really that spoilery; all the similarities could be merely coincidental (it was already half written in my hard disk). Next part would be, thought.

Disclaimer: Not mine, but I don't really care. AWM does a real fine work. ;)

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It's still early, but she decides it's been enough.

She had thought she wouldn't sleep at all, given the circumstances and yesterday's happenings, but her partner's arms have proven to be an extraordinary place to rest. Or just be, for that matter. Warm, safe, caring, loving. Strong… She's slept more than a few hours and quite good, she must admit. Only the reassuring light of a new day (perhaps a new life) could wake her. And once she's awake she just can't stay put.

She's still reeling from all that's happened and, as good as it was last night (because it was more than good) and, as comfortable as she may be lying relaxed in his embrace (and she truly is), if she stays in bed, she'll start thinking too much. Wondering. A thousand questions popping in her mind without an answer to comfort her. What's she going to do now that she's quitted her job? Where are those who want to kill her? How long do they have until they try again? What's Castle's deal with this Mr. Smith? How are Esposito, or Ryan, coping?

But the thing that worries her the most is how Castle will react when he wakes up. He was mad at her only yesterday. Really mad. They were done.

Her chest tightens with sorrow and she turns a bit in his arms, gently, trying not to him in his sleep. She draws herself closer to him, slowly, to feel his skin in her skin, to breathe him in and believe he's real. Delighting in the feeling, she places a light but lingering kiss in his shoulder and sighs softly; then, she carefully disentangles herself from his loose lethargic grip. She doesn't want to wake him. He looks so at peace, so young, so unburdened… Nothing like two days ago when he had walked away, broken, without looking back, leaving her to her stupid stubbornness.

Last night she tried to erase all that, all the bad things she knows he was feeling because of her. As the cleansing rain was falling forcefully in the streets, she had tried to wipe away with her kisses and caresses the rage, the fear, the distress, the unhappiness, the grief; the storm roaring outside in rhythm with their frenzied hearts. She only hopes now that they don't end covered in mud. She tried her best, however, she's aware she's got not much credibility with him right now; she's not good at communicating feelings, she lacks control when it comes to her past and her mother's case. And she's not that good at being upfront with him. He's kind and good-hearted and forgiving, she knows. But still, she chose her silly war, and even her death, not just over him, but over anything and everything. If it had happened the other way around, she doesn't know how she'd have acted. If he went out to die, unreasonably, in a losing battle, disregarding her, after she'd confessed her love? She'd be disappointed, frustrated, desolate. She doesn't want to even think of it…

With one last look at him, refraining herself from running her fingers through his hair, she slides out of the warm bed, out of his caring arms.

The air is chilly and it makes her shiver. Maybe it's just her body already missing his. She winces at the thought and is thankful that he would never hear it. With a shake of her head and a smile, she steps toward his closet and picks a shirt. Her clothes are who-knows-where and probably totally ruined, still drenched, and, anyway, she wants to have something of him, not being ready to totally leave his warmth, and wanting to, at the same time, show a compromise. Wearing his clothes is something intimate; it's something that says "It's already morning and I'm still here." And she needs that now, to reassure himself as much as herself.

By the way shadows are vanishing in the faint light, the sun must be still low in the horizon, its beams filling the room with golden sparkles and amber flecks, feebly at first, more powerfully by the minute; like waking up, like claiming slowly the reign of its domains.

She walks to the side window as she slips on his shirt. It smells like fresh laundry and him, and it's intoxicating.

Fastening the middle buttons, she looks out. The city is still dozing.

There are no apparent signs of the furious storm, only the silent wetness of buildings and streets and the humidity she can discern in the ambient. Pink-gray clouds disperse in the early dark blue sky as it is being shattered by rays of white and reddish and orange light in increasing brightness. A new day, indeed. In full force.

She serenely takes in that she's staring at a different view of Manhattan. Different but just the same, she reflects. Just like them. They're different now, but still the same. Aren't they? No. No, she reasons. They are more.

She turns to observe him again. The bedspread is in one side; the sheets are covering his lower half and his abdomen, but reveal his upper torso, his broad chest and shoulders bare for her to enjoy. He is breathing softly, his arm still in the place where she was lying a few minutes ago, now holding just thin air.

She bits her lower lip. Is this for real or just a mirage? They've jumped. But, what now?

She sighs.

And out of the nothing, a thought that she had tried to relegate to the bottom of her unconsciousness, that she had attempted to ignore, unsuccessfully most of the time, comes back unbidden to nag at her again.

What if what Sofia said was true?

Sofia… The mere memory of her is disgusting; even reading Clara Strike is somewhat difficult now. She hates her. Not the character, no; the woman and all that she represents. She hates that she's made her doubt herself and them so much, that she made her unsure about Castle when she'd been almost there. And yes, she's dead and she knows she was a traitor of the worst class; that she betrayed her country and the people who had trusted her for years, and that all she said was, probably, a lie. She knows it. But the words she uttered to her still sound in her mind.

What if he loses his interest on her after sleeping together?

She'd be devastated. Utterly and completely devastated.

She's one of his many muses. Another one. She wonders again how many of them there have been. How many he took to bed. He'd said that she was different, but she can't help this feeling creeping inside. This uneasiness. He has a reputation; he's strolled around Manhattan with a blonde in each arm and many more behind him. So what if this is just that?

She reminisces about the very first case they worked together. The first time she took him to the station and how, when they'd finally caught the killer, he had already wanted to take her to bed. "Debrief", he had called it. It had been absolutely surreal, she has to concede. It'd been unexpected and totally odd that his favorite author ever had happened to land under her jurisdiction and had chosen her to annoy with his (lovable) antics, accompanying her in her investigations. She had been so furious at first… But he was… refreshing. It worked. He surprisingly helped to solve the cases. And however frustrating he could be at times, she had found herself loving their dynamic, their special magic. They were good. They are good.

She closes her eyes and relives their night. Yes, they are good together. She had imagined them in bed more often that she'd ever admit, and she had the feeling that they'd be good, but reality had been exceptional; it had exceeded all her expectations. She tries to unsuccessfully suppress a smile at the thought.

They can't be just a spur of the moment.

He's been there all this time, making her fall in love with him detail by detail. She was predisposed; she already loved his books, his mind. It was not difficult to fall in love with the rest of him once he left aside the act and the playboy façade, and the charming gentleman, the adorable man with the boy inside, the loving father, the good son, the loyal friend, the unrelenting partner had emerged. Full force.

It was difficult for her to believe that he could love her in return, especially after all the commotion of last year; the misunderstandings of the previous ones; the pretenses; suppressed feelings; the pretexts; the subtext, and the general state of damage she was in.

Yet, here they are.

He loves her. And he had waited for her to get her act together; waited for her wall to come down so that he could finally see her fixed, whole, and finally be let in.

She looks at him, lying peacefully on his back, satisfied smile on his lips and a wrinkle of happiness on his eyes, and she has to take a deep breath to loosen the sudden knot in her throat, her eyes shining a bit too much.

Oh, she knows the real Richard Castle. Yes, she does.

He used to have a reputation. Used to. Not anymore. Lanie and she already had this conversation. And, despite the stewardess "episode" of barely a few months ago (ironically, as a twisted cosmic joke, just after such conversation), she knows he's not the playboy he used to enact. She doubts he ever was it at all; not like the magazines tried to sell him, anyway.

And she is certain she's not another notch in his bedpost. She's gotten enough proof that that's not what this is. She is not just a random conquest and this is not a preset goal. Not even to his childish whims, his eagerness, his love for challenge and his dismissal of rejection. Not now.

He chose her to be his muse, and there have been more; but he has also chosen to stay by her side. continuously. He's been a little shiny light that's been guiding her inadvertently, a tiny but firm voice that has really proven to be effective, for she has reached, if not a final destination, at least a place to rest. No, not just that. It's a place to begin anew.

There's not much more to say after that.

She will be braver now; she will give back. One has to feed love with love, hope and patience only reaching so far; they may be enough for a moment or two, but they alone can't sustain a heart.

So, although she hopes she's been clear, that he realizes that she's sincere, it'll be understandable that he doesn't really trust she's firm on her choice of him over… everything. If it comes to it, if he isn't able to just let go of the way she deceived him, how she ended pushing him away, she'll wait for him to forgive her.

She owes it to him. And to herself.

With a decided strode, mussed hair and half-dressed, she walks out the bedroom and toward the kitchen. It's her turn to stay right by his side; to be tough and persevere.

To bring him a cup of coffee and put a smile on his face.

Even if she doesn't really know how to do this, she will make him see.

She smiles.

Maybe she should make pancakes.

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A/N: Gee... I love morning fics, you can play so much with the light... Well, share your thoughts with me? :)