He's known exactly where to find her since the night she left. She hadn't even noticed that he'd slipped a tracker on her coat. Being a PI has its perks.
A crappy walk up. Not that she'd got there till hours later. She'd gone back to the precinct, and as long as she was there he knew that she was working. When the tracker moved again, he'd used the program on his laptop to follow her to her new abode, and the GPS to locate her very precisely. She'd got there past midnight. She'd left again before 5am. He knows that she didn't sleep at all. He knows his Beckett – she is his Beckett, however insanely stupidly martyric (is that even a word? Does he even care, because it's so apt, right now) she is being – and in this state all she'll do is work till she collapses.
A down-market walk up in Alphabet City, studio apartment, just about clean – it had become noticeably cleaner a couple of days later: she'd scrubbed it to within an inch of its life. How does he know? Same way he knows there's nothing in her fridge, no coffee in the cupboards, that she's barely unpacked, that this isn't permanent – no bath. She'd never live somewhere that didn't have a bath. But then, he also knows – has known since the evening following her… departure – why she's done this. He knows, too, why she didn't tell him.
Being a PI has more perks than just trackers. Long ago, he'd been taught how to pick locks. So he had. And call it creepy or call it stalking or call it whatever the hell you like, but he had to know why Beckett begged him to trust her, pleaded with him that she hoped he'd forgive her, and walked out weeping, with an unsuspected tracker in the collar of her coat that he'd palmed when he'd heard the telltale rustling of a bag and clothing. He'd been devastated. He'd had to know. He always has to know the story.
So – he isn't proud of this – he'd gone along to her walk up, picked the locks, and installed more than a little very expensive tech. Including – but not exclusively – a small camera over the desk which will let him see everything she lays out there; another behind the desk which will show him her laptop screen, and two bugs. One in the desk. One as close to the headboard of her bed as he can manage. And one final camera over the door. Just in case. Just in case he'd got this all wrong and he's failed again to be man enough.
The rest of the day had been hell. Waiting for her to leave, waiting to try to do the same to her Captain's office. He'll be arrested if it's found – or shot, if Beckett finds it. But it was one tiny, almost invisible camera, and no voice pickups. He thought he would be fine. He still does. It hasn't been spotted yet. None of them have been spotted.
She hadn't left, again, till after midnight. He'd sneaked in, through the back stairwell, pinned by a memory of PTSD-ridden Beckett, nearly four years ago, running from him into its bleak silence and – most importantly – absence of surveillance, set his clever tech and sneaked back home again. Well. Not home. Alexis thinks he's sleeping in the PI cave because he can't bear the loft. She's dead wrong. He's staying awake in the PI cave because there he can watch and listen to Beckett without fear of anyone knowing: every document she reads, every scribble, and every word she says. She still talks to herself, when she's thinking deeply, exactly as she mutters at her murder board.
He can hear her crying, too. Every night. She's barely sleeping: crying to herself in the shower, crying in bed. She's no less emotional when she wakes. She's up and out, buying coffee on her way to the precinct, in there by six, working her ass off to be on top of all her new Captainly duties and to do that the best she can.
And then she comes back to this dirty, down-market walk up and starts her other investigation. The one she wouldn't tell him about.
The one she couldn't tell him about.
Because he's implicated.
Reading over her shoulder, so to speak, on that first following night, still reeling from the blow she'd dealt him, still furiously scratching for any spark of hope, he'd read over her shoulder and listened to her verbalised thoughts. She had the unredacted memo, of which he'd only seen the censored version. Her head was in her hands, her shoulders tense, her whole body rigid.
He'd read down with her – she reads too slowly for him, and he had urged her with every unheard word to speed up, let him see more, the next word and line and paragraph.
There it was.
July/August 2014. Mission accomplished. Richard Castle identified on tape leaving the evidence in a Dumpster. All assets secure: clean up complete. RC will be the only party of interest in any investigation.
"It isn't true," she'd said, venom in every letter. "It is not true." And then she'd drawn in a breath. "I have to prove it."
In such a way, two years ago, with such force and pure bright burning belief, had she told him that she believed in him, that he had not committed the crimes of which he had been accused. She still believes in him, with every fibre of her being and every beat of her heart and every tear that she cries.
He'd thought, right up till that moment, that she was back down the rabbit hole of chasing Bracken. If only. If only it had been that easy. He could have done something about that. He could have stopped playing the charming idiot telling everyone in sight how he's going to win her back just like he did the first time. He could have stopped sleeping in the PI cave. He could have dragged her back to Dr Burke and had the damn woman committed, dear Christ, till she got enough therapy to sort herself out. He could have left her, as she had appeared to leave him.
But if he does anything about this, he'll corrupt her whole investigation and everything she's trying to do to save him, only him, will be tainted and useless. He can't investigate on his own account. After all, he's had his so-called explanation of his disappearance, and he has to pretend he's satisfied with that.
So night after night, he follows her by cyber-spying, and listens to her talking to herself. Night after night, listens to her crying. Listens to her berating herself for not finding more, faster: not being able to see the pattern, solve the case. Listens to her misery, and the constant refrain of self-blame. Worst of all, listening to her pleading with the empty air, or her empty bed, to tell her, reassure her, that he'll take her back after this.
She isn't sure he will. Scratch that. She's pretty much certain he won't. She's sure he'll never believe her, and convinced that he'll never trust her: that Bracken's final, fatal last words will poison his soul and pollute even his immense capacity for love and forgiveness. She's sure he'll only ever think that she couldn't choose him over her demons. Truth is, she's chosen him, but she can never tell him why she's had to do this, until it's over.
So every time he sees her, he shows that he still loves her, because he knows that she still loves him. And every day that she spends running her precinct and then searching frantically late into the night for the evidence that will clear his name of the unjustified implications, she gets thinner, and more stressed, and begins to look tired, and then fragile, frail, almost ill. She's utterly miserable, and it wouldn't matter now if he ignored her or kissed her or fought with her, because she couldn't get any more unhappy.
And then he hears her start to wonder, through her tears, whether she shouldn't just bite the bullet: let him know that she understands that he'll never want her back; that she knows she's ruined it all; that she knows that everyone will be on his side – because they already are – and that she'll take whatever vitriol is thrown at her. It doesn't make any difference now, because it's been three weeks, then four, then five, and that's too long for anyone to trust in her. She's beginning to plan for the rest of a lonely life: looking up places to live outside Manhattan – outside New York State; looking at security work, or bounty hunting. She already thinks that he won't take her back. He'd worry less, if her gun wasn't on the desk beside her, instead of locked in a drawer.
He hears her crying, every night, and can't do anything about it. She's saving him, but she's killing herself to do it: to remove the Sword of Damocles that he – she thinks – doesn't know is over his head. And she's doing it alone, because she doesn't know who to trust: won't bring in the boys, can't bring him in, hasn't enough, yet, to go to the one pillar of integrity in whom she would have complete faith to do the right thing. He has to step back, not be near the precinct, not be near her, as his electronic spying shows him that she's piecing it together. He knows that he's feeding her belief that they're over, but he can't let her sacrifice go unrewarded. Listening to her cry is the hardest thing he has ever done.
She's killing herself to save him, and she thinks – she knows – it will cost her everything.
She has to clear his name. Whatever it takes, she can't allow this frame to continue: can't have Castle at risk for any longer than it takes. He did not do this. He is not involved, he's been set up: maybe because of his father, maybe it's Bracken's last act of revenge – who cares? She will cut away this web of lies and find the truth because she believes to the last drop of her blood that Castle was not part of this.
Unlike last time, though, she can't let him anywhere near it. She shouldn't be near it, but there's no-one else she can trust right now, and until she has some clear proof that it's a frame, she can't take the one option she longs to take, the one person who has the same blazing bright professional integrity and who is incorruptible. She has to have more. She'd skimmed the unredacted memo and horror had suffocated her: the depth of the plan unimaginable. Not her, but him.
She'd known what she had to do. She can't let him see any of this. She can't clear him if he is in any way involved. So she'd packed a bag, and begged him to trust her; hoped through her tears that he'd take her back afterwards and watched the light die in his eyes; pleaded with him that he'd be able to forgive her.
And known that he never would.
Bracken's venomous words had already pierced his soul, and she'd seen that he believed them. But she has to save him, because she loves him more than she knew she'd ever love anyone, and she can't live with herself if she doesn't clear all taint, all possibility that he'll be swept up in this disaster. They can't have a happy ever after if she knows he's at risk all the time: that one day someone will use it against them.
They won't have a happy ever after anyway. But Castle can. A life, better than the alternative of life in jail, or the needle. He'll get over her. The other options… not so much.
So she rents a cheap, dirty walk up close to the precinct and tries not to shudder at the contrast with the loft: puts all her daily effort into running her precinct and being the Captain she knew she can be. She has to. The boys are a fraction cool, Lanie guarded: it's clear everyone thinks she's a fool, and worse, a betrayer. Everyone is, not so subtly, on Castle's side. She accepts it all, and knows that she deserves it. She'll put up with anything, with everything, so long as she saves him.
She doesn't shirk one iota of her precinct duties. Nothing is left undone. But she's in far earlier than anyone knows: living on coffee and desperation to keep it running, so that she can have the evenings to investigate.
So that she can cry unseen and unsuspected. Every time Castle involves himself in a case, comes by the precinct – helps, just like he always did, and has, and does; every time his eyes beg her to come home, plead with her to let him in; every time he touches her and when he gives her coffee; she has to steel herself and pretend with all her might that she's Captain Beckett, not Kate Castle.
Her diet's appalling, the weight of her actions shrinking her stomach and cramping her gut. Lunch is minimal, dinner less. Coffee suffices. The boys don't offer to get her lunch, and she won't ask. She doesn't expect their consideration or even their friendship, any more. Superficially, it's all the same. Deep down, she can see them weighing her in the balance, and finding that she's come up short.
She keeps working, in her dingy walk up: the only light the yellow puddle from the desk lamp and the glare of her laptop screen. She prays to herself that she can find something, show him what she's done, explain her actions, but with every day that passes she believes it less. So her tears fall, as she searches, bitter tears as she begins to put facts together; never fast enough. She blames herself for not finding more, or insisting on investigating his disappearance last year; for not working harder, better, more. But she can't afford to let the precinct slip.
Even if she won't be there much longer. She'll save Castle, but since he'll never trust her again there will be no joy in the Captaincy, and no future for her in New York. She starts to look for other options, where she won't be reminded of what she could have had if some faceless organisation hadn't settled on Castle to be their patsy, and ruined their might-have-been. She'll have to quit police work, but then, what's that loss compared to the one she's already going through? He'll never believe that she believes in him. He'll never trust her not to go off chasing some crusade without him.
She's broken his heart, and it's no consolation that she broke her own. Late in the night, in the small hours, she cries into her pillow and whispers her pleas for forgiveness into the empty night, knowing that she'll never receive it.
Five weeks gone by, Captain Beckett requests a meeting at 1PP with newly-promoted – as newly ranked as she – Deputy Inspector Victoria Gates. She ignores Gates' indrawn breath on seeing her. She knows she's too thin, too pale. The two hour meeting becomes three, then four, then eight. All her evidence and proof is laid out, and Gates tests and probes and tries to find a flaw – and can't. The hardest test, passed. Gates has never been a Castle fan, and if she has been convinced, then Castle is safe. Gates' praise for what she's done, and the cost to her that she's paid, burns in her ears. It's no consolation.
But she's done it. She's saved him. It's cost her, she expects, her marriage, her career and her future, but she has saved him. He'll never know that he was under threat of the life sentence, or the needle. He's safe.
She returns to the precinct and works through the following day, leaving everything tidy and complete. She expects that she'll have to give notice: how long will be up to the brass. She'll have to go and talk to Castle, explain, watch the disbelief in his eyes and his inability to forgive her. She barely believes it, and she has the proof.
She knows that it's all over. She didn't even pack her possessions at the walk up this morning. She'll be back there until she leaves the city. That will be soon. Castle stopped showing up on cases nearly a fortnight ago. She hasn't seen or heard from him since. It's all over.
As she leaves the precinct, early evening news is running, a new scandal, a series of arrests reaching high up in the agencies. The credit goes to DI Gates, as agreed. Her name isn't mentioned. She doesn't deserve that credit, either, when she's had to trash her life to achieve it. No point in the credit, when the team will never be the same – they'll never believe it – when Castle will never trust her again, never love her the way he did. She can't tell him anything about his framing. Gates had put her under oath of confidentiality not to speak of it to anyone.
At first she thinks she's been burgled. The walk up is completely empty of all her items. It's one straw too many. She collapses on to the bed and sobs, wrung out and empty. At least she has her laptop. It's gone everywhere with her. She can start looking for a new life, outside the Twelfth and outside New York. She sits up, and switches it on, retrieves the saved searches. When she's satisfied that she has a plan, she braces herself for the next action. She knows what will happen. But she can't simply disappear into the night. She's come this far, and now she'll take the last, bitter, final step.
She doesn't use her key: she has no more right to that entry. She knocks, and waits, late in the evening. The door opens.
"It's over," she says, not entering, proffering the key. "I know you're done with me, and I accept that. I don't expect you to be able to forgive, or understand. It's all on me. I'm sorry for what I had to do, and I can't even tell you why. I just had to tell you it's over, and that I won't ask you for anything. I'll be leaving the city." She turns to leave, still maintaining dry eyes.
"Where do you think you're going?"
She shrugs. "Does it matter? I'm going to resign. They can find another Captain. I broke us, and the team, and I can't fix that."
A hand curls round her wrist. "I know what you did, Beckett. I know why you did it. By now, so do Ryan, Esposito and Lanie. Gates summoned us all, earlier."
"It doesn't matter. I understand, Castle. You can't trust me. I knew that was a risk. I can't live with this. You'll always doubt me, and I can't bear it. No matter what you say, you'll never believe in me like you did."
"But you thought that was a price worth paying. You gave up everything so that I'd be safe. You believed in me so strongly that you put everything on the line to prove it." He takes a deep breath, and pulls her inside, and into his arms. "I knew what you were doing. Right from the start, I knew," he whispers into her ear. "I brought your things home, earlier, now it's all done."
"You couldn't know."
"I did know. I knew where you were staying, and what you were doing. I'm a PI, Beckett. I've had your number since the start. Every step of the way." She looks up, eyes wide and overflowing.
"You knew?"
"I knew. I always knew. I had to let you carry on. I'm so sorry that I had to let you cry alone." He holds her tightly.
"I knew this, too, that you did it all because you love me." he breathes. "Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. That's what you were doing. I believe in you, Beckett, just like you believe in me." He breathes.
"Now, we can believe in each other. No more private investigations."
Fin.
Sorry, yet another s8 fix it. I hope this is at least vaguely original.
Thank you in advance to readers and reviewers.