Chapter 7

She couldn't focus or think. Everything hurt: sweat poured from her, her eyelids were too heavy to stay open. She vaguely knew that water was put to her lips, cooling her feverish heat; she vaguely felt another presence, comforting without fussing, helping her to the bathroom and bringing – carrying – her back.

But in between, there were only the nightmares: frantically trying to do her job, never doing it well enough or fast enough: the shades of the victims dogging her heels and exhorting her to do more, better, faster; why haven't you solved it yet? How can I be at peace if you won't find my murderer? And then there was Gates: you're not fit for duty. Go: the boys behind her nodding in vehement agreement. Castle wasn't there, and that was the worst nightmare of all. He wasn't there. In her nightmares, she knew it was because she'd waited too long to tell him the truth, taken too long to be fixed. Couldn't be fixed.


Castle had spoken to Ryan a few times, briefly, since he was less combative about his worry than Esposito, to say that he was staying upstate and that Beckett wasn't well. He'd said the same to his family, who were less than impressed but kept the majority of their commentary to themselves. He'd even let Gates know that Beckett was actually physically ill – by text. Speaking to Gates was rarely on his to-do list.

He watched over her, as he had done for almost six full days, as she tossed and turned, never quite at the stage (informed by dealing with Alexis's childhood illnesses) where he needed to get her to the ER but never really hitting consciousness, wracked by nightmares and, worst of all, sometimes calling for him and then weeping that he wasn't there; not hearing his soft assurances that he was there, always there. She hadn't eaten, and she was burning through the few reserves she'd had, seeming thinner by the hour, though he'd managed to help her drink; supported her to and from the bathroom but left her the privacy within. He didn't think she'd ever really noticed.

Castle considered the agony on her face, the tight ball of her body and limbs, and, unable to do anything more for her, slipped away downstairs, where he contemplated the screen of her phone. He shouldn't do what he was going to do, by any normal standards of civilised manners. But if he didn't, Beckett wouldn't, and he had the perfect opportunity to do so while she wouldn't notice.

"Can I speak to Dr Burke, please?"

"May I say who is calling?" That was a surprise. Castle had expected to be told to call later, or that he would be called back.

"I'm Richard – Rodgers."

"Please hold."

The hold music was soothingly classical and completely unfamiliar.

"Dr Burke speaking."

"Er… hello. Um… it's actually about Detective Kate Beckett?"

The professionally warm tone disappeared. "And you are who, precisely?"

"I'm, um, Richard Castle. Her partner."

"And yet I was informed that the person calling was Richard Rodgers. In any event, I will not be speaking to you."

"Don't hang up! I want to speak to you. Beckett's been suspended."

A sharp intake of breath whistled through the connection. "Before you continue, why have you called?"

"I know you're treating Beckett." He didn't say how.

"And?" It wasn't quite hostile. It certainly didn't invite cheerful chatter.

"She had a PTSD episode while interrogating and her Captain suspended her indefinitely on medical grounds. That was about two weeks ago. Then she ran off here" –

"Where is 'here'?"

"Titusville Mountain State Forest – without telling anyone and, well, she said she wished she'd stayed dead" – another sharp breath – "and now she's ill. Flu, probably, but…um… if she isn't better tomorrow I think I'm going to have to take her to a doctor. It's been a week."

"I see."

"So anyways, I think she needs to come see you but I don't think she will and, well, I don't know what to do but" –

"Mr Castle."

Castle was stopped in mid-flow.

"Without commenting on any person who I might or might not be treating, are you not aware that it is up to any adult, having capacity, as to whether they seek, accept, continue or cease medical treatment of any sort?"

"Well, yes, but" –

"And that therefore it would be entirely up to Detective Beckett whether she sought or continued treatment?"

"Yes, but" –

"And that therefore I cannot assist you. Should Detective Beckett seek my guidance, I shall provide it. If she does not, I cannot. Good day, Mr Castle."

The call terminated. Castle stared at the phone, swore viciously, fruitlessly and unsatisfyingly quietly for a few moments, and then went outside the cabin and yelled at the empty forest. Primal scream therapy, he concluded as he finished, was a con.

The cabin was silent. Castle switched the kettle on, and only then had a mental double-take, raced upstairs to find out why there was no noise, heart hammering, panicked.

For almost the first time since he'd reached the cabin, she was quiet and still. He placed a terrified hand on her forehead, which was disgustingly clammy, and only then placed careful fingers on the pulse point in her neck. It was… he counted, carefully…a little fast, but not too bad. She was less foetal, too. Maybe, just maybe, she'd come through the worst, and, if she weren't incubating an illness, there would be the chance to pull her back. (to you, a little voice said in his head. You'd live without her being a cop. You can't live without her, whatever you try to tell yourself.)

He sat down on the edge of the bed, gently, so as not to move her – he'd dropped too hard once, and she'd whimpered like a wounded deer – and stroked her hair back from her damp face. She'd benefit from a bath, but there was only a shower here, and no way to improvise. Her eyes stayed shut, her breathing didn't alter, but there was no pained scratch from her throat, no wince. She seemed easier. He leaned down, and placed a butterfly kiss on her forehead. She made a soft noise, and stayed sleeping as he left.

He made himself a coffee, and slumped at the table, holding it to warm his hands and his suddenly-cold, adrenaline-crashing psyche. He had to be strong…but not right now. His eyes stung, and his fingers trembled. Ignoring the coffee, he put his head on the table, just for a moment…just a moment… The coffee cooled as deep breathing and the occasional tiny snore filled the air.

A creak of floorboards woke him. He creaked himself, to join the wood, and stretched the knots from his abused spine: tail to neck. The position he'd… oh. Fallen asleep in… had done nothing to ease his muscles. He undertook a few more stretches, and heard a flush, running water, more small creaks as Beckett – huh? Started down the stairs?

Less than two fragile, tentative steps downward, Castle had bounded up the remaining steps and caught her.

"What are you doing?"

"Coffee," she pleaded.

"I'd have brought you it. You shouldn't be out of bed."

She stared at him.

"You've been really sick. Flu, or something like that."

She was still staring, as if he were a ghost. "How are you here? You… I thought you'd gone. You weren't there."

"I've been here all the time."

"No… I was looking for you and you weren't there."

"Nightmares," he said briskly, and went backwards down the steps, ready to catch her if – possibly when – she tripped. Her ankles looked too narrow to support her, the sharp jut of her cheekbones far too pronounced, her wrists too thin to catch herself. A collection of twigs, he thought, held together with thread.

Even the stairs proved her weakness. She sank into the couch, shaking.

"Okay, just sit there and don't try and move." Castle made the coffee, and sat down beside her. "You got sick when we went into town six days ago."

Sluggish comprehension trudged into her face. "Six?" He nodded. She gazed at her mug, steaming gently on the table. "I don't remember."

Castle winced. "Don't remember what?"

"After the diner." She missed his slumped relief. He'd thought she might…. He'd thought she would lie again: ignore the preceding days. It would have given her the perfect get out.

But she hadn't used it. She hadn't used it.

"I thought you'd gone. You weren't there."

"I said: nightmares."

The coffee sloshed from side to side of the mug as she took a sip, and followed with a larger mouthful, but then she put it back on the table. Castle would have been happier if she'd kept it in her hands, as usual, but the tremor in her arms prevented it. Uncomfortable silence thickened the air.

"What now?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Staying here." It was, despite his earlier hopes, just as flat, blank and uncaring as she'd been when he'd arrived.

"And do what?"

She shrugged again. "I'll find something. Doesn't matter."

"But…"

"But what. I'm going to be fired. I can't be a cop 'cause I can't do the job. It's over. So who cares what I do?" The floodgates opened. "I'm never going to be fixed. There's no point and I'm so tired of trying when nothing works. I'm done." She huddled into the corner of the couch. "I'm done with all of it."

"You haven't been fired," he tried.

"Only a matter of time." She glanced around with dead eyes. "Might as well resign first. Looks better."

"Gates said she wasn't going to fire you," he blurted out.

"She hates me. Anyway, the team's broken. I'm broken and it broke the team. No team. No cop. No point. It's done, and I'm done." She heaved herself up, slow and hurting. "I'm tired. I'm going to sleep."

He watched her bent back and lank hair as she stumbled upstairs, and tried not to weep as he was sure she was weeping.

And then he picked up his phone, went outside into the thin April sunshine and gusting breeze, and dialled Gates. It was the only thing he could think of that might shatter Beckett into sense.

"Captain Gates."

"It's Rick Castle."

"Yes?"

"Beckett's not okay."

"So I surmised. Neither of you is here."

"She was sick. But she's still saying she's done with it all. She thinks you're going to fire her and the only way she'll believe you won't is if you tell her."

"Why should I do that?"

"Because you said that Beckett was one of your people and you intended her to get back to the precinct."

"I did say that. However, Detective Beckett's choices are her decisions."

"Not if she hasn't got the full facts."

"A fair point," Gates said judicially. "Of what else should I be aware?"

Castle found himself on the sharp-pointed horns of a dilemma. He didn't truly think that Beckett would last six months without being a cop, but saying that might be the final nail in the coffin of Gates's tolerance. He thought back to Gates's previous cutting comments, and decided.

"I think she's not just done with being a cop – she thinks. I think she means she's done with everything. I think" – he choked on the words – "she still wishes she'd stayed dead."

"And you haven't managed to convince her otherwise? I would have thought that you had one sure way to change that."

"She was ill. And it didn't make a difference anyway," he added bitterly. An interrogative silence trapped him. "She just said she'd never be fixed and it wasn't enough."

"I do not believe that."

Castle gaped uselessly at the phone.

"I shall talk to her. Put her on."

"She's asleep."

"I see. When she wakes, you will ensure that she calls me. I think we are done here, Mr Castle." He'd swear he heard a fragment of approval as she cut the call.


At her desk in the Twelfth Precinct, with the sunlight knifing through her blinds, Gates contemplated the value of the sharp lesson which Mr Castle had evidently learned. That was very satisfactory. Detective Beckett's condition, however, was not satisfactory at all. Gates would have thought that some blunt truth about Mr Castle's only-too-obvious feelings would have improved Beckett's mood enough to pull her out of the slough of despond into which she had fallen. Of course, that was proof positive that Beckett had not solved her issues in any way. Had she done so, Gates reflected acidly, or had any of the four of them actually had the sense to report to Gates herself, then this whole mess might have been avoided. Beckett's flu – and Gates did believe Mr Castle on that subject: he was distressingly voluble about most things – was merely one further roadblock.

Still, Gates was not inclined to allow a detective as good as Beckett to leave without taking drastic steps to try and resolve the position. She began to consider her strategy.


Castle made himself lunch, forced himself to eat it, and forced himself to drink. Stress had given him a slight headache, but two Advil cured it. He tried to write, and failed: eventually giving up and reading while his phone charged. After about an hour, he heard small sounds of stirring, and shortly after that Beckett wavered down the stairs.

"Hey," he said. "Want some lunch? I got some soup at the store."

She stared pathetically at him, as if she hadn't understood.

"Soup? Chicken, 'cause you were ill."

"'Kay, thanks." She flopped into a chair at the table, and recovered from the exertion. Castle heated the soup, and sliced and buttered a little bread, in case she'd eat it. He didn't put much in the bowl. Beckett slowly spooned it up, still shaky, and nibbled at the bread.

Castle sat opposite, and tried to think of the best way to introduce the subject of Gates's desire – or order – to talk to Beckett as soon as possible. He wasn't having any success at all. Every time he thought about how that conversation might go – not even the discussion with Gates – the outcome became worse. While he thought, Beckett failed to finish either the small portion of soup or the small piece of bread, which didn't fill Castle with any confidence either.

When she pushed the bowl away, he decided that he simply had to jump in with both feet.

"Um, Gates wants to talk to you," he blurted out before he could think himself out of it. Every drop of blood drained from Beckett's face. "Don't faint!" He was round the table in an instant, holding her, cossetting her close to him. "It's okay. I've got you." A feeble grip clutched at his sweater, and her cheek pressed against his ribs. He held her tighter.

"Don't let go." He hadn't been planning to. "I can't…" He thought she was crying. "I can't talk to her. She'll fire me and that's it…game over." OhmyfuckingGod. She's coming back. "I know I'm done but I want to go on my terms not hers." Shit. Not back. And definitely crying. "Can't I just finish with some dignity?"

"You don't know what she's going to say," he tried softly, and knelt down to cradle her more comfortably. "She put you on medical leave. Why'd she do that if she was going to fire you?"

"So she doesn't look like a total bitch or get on the wrong side of the union rep."

Beckett's words might be bitter, but they were more passionate than anything she'd said in the last ten days, since she'd gone into Interrogation One and everything had crashed and burned. A tiny tendril of hope pushed through the mulch of Castle's worries.

"Just hear her out. If she fires you, I'll talk her into letting it be a resignation instead." He manufactured resolve. "I know a lot of very good lawyers, and I can make her life absolute hell."

"Do I have to?"

"Get it over with. Whatever happens, I'll be here."

"Why? I'm all washed up."

Castle cut her off without compunction. "We'll talk about that – we'll talk – after you've called Gates." But his words were softened by his arms around her, caressing and cossetting. "C'mon. You can do this." Her head shook against his chest and shoulder. "You can. One step."

"Last step."

He wouldn't let it be. He wouldn't let her throw everything away without knowing all the facts. Right now, she didn't know any of them.

"I don't want to," she sniffled: a child facing unpleasantness.

"One thing. Then it's done."

"I guess," she breathed, defeat in every word and line of her body. "It's done." Her hands trembled.

"I'll dial." He pulled a chair round to sit next to her, tapped on the phone, and set it on speaker. She didn't protest, nor when he put a gentle arm around her.

"Captain Gates."

Castle nudged Beckett, who, now that the moment of doom had come, couldn't speak.

"Captain Gates here. Who is this?" Her tone was sharply irritated. Beckett still couldn't force a word from her mouth. Castle stepped in.

"It's me, Castle," he said. "Beckett's with me."

"Detective Beckett." Beckett shivered. "Explain why you have not either attended therapy or reported for duty with medical proof that you are fit to serve."

Silence. Gates's ire burned through the connection.

"Perhaps you would care to explain why you are not using your medical leave to seek treatment? Medical leave is not an excuse to take a vacation."

Beckett summoned words. "I've been sick. Anyway, what's the point in therapy? You're going to fire me anyway. Just get on with it."

Gates's irascible temper fired. "If I had been going to fire you, Detective, I would have done so immediately. I don't keep dead wood around." She paused, and received no answer. "I am perfectly aware that you remain loyal to your previous Captain, but I am exceedingly disappointed that such loyalty has erased both your ability to accept a new Captain and to assess them impartially, and therefore to realise that I do not play games with my people." She paused. "Captain Montgomery is dead. Whatever he may have done, or not done – and I am quite certain that there are matters which you have not disclosed which would cast doubt on his reputation – death erases all sins. I am not minded to waste resources on investigating his role in the events leading up to his funeral unless I have no other option."

Gates stopped again, clearly expecting a comment. Castle gnawed the inside of his cheek to stop himself talking. Beckett's face was entirely blank.

"I am your Captain now."

"It doesn't matter. I'm done."

"Done? Not while you are a detective employed by the NYPD."

"Who cares? Everyone made it clear I can't do the job. I'm done." Her fingers stretched towards the phone. Castle moved it so that she couldn't cut the call. "No-one wants to know me now."

"I expect the same standard of work from you as you have previously given to the NYPD. That means, Detective, that I expect you to undergo whatever treatment you require and return to this precinct at the earliest opportunity after you have resolved your issues. Until that time, however, your team remains under the same order I gave last week: that they are not to contact you in any way."

Beckett jerked, and gasped.

"Had I not done so, they would have impeded your recovery by speaking to you at every opportunity. I will not permit you to use your work to mask the underlying issues which you need to deal with."

Cold turkey, Castle thought, and fortunately didn't say it. Beckett's face was coming to life, and not in a good way. Fire rose in her eyes, but began to fade again. His heart sank.


Thank you to all readers and reviewers.