Author's Note: This chapter was hard to write and I'm not sure how well it's turned out but I will leave that to you to decide. Brace yourselves for a roller-coaster of a chapter.

Nothing Lost

Chapter 23

Later turned out to be the following evening.

After spending some time during the day holed up in his office to do some research into William Bracken, not an investigation but just to see what was publicly available knowledge about him, learning that ironically, he'd been elected on a strong law-and-order platform, touting his experience as the DA. Castle skimmed through the summaries of his life, portrayed as a rags to riches success story, reflecting grimly that such a man had a lot to lose, especially a man of apparently boundless ambition. Which made him dangerous. He hoped Agent Shaw was as good as her reputation suggested.

After dinner with his mother and Alexis, as usual, Castle returned to see Beckett. He exchanged a couple minutes of idle chat with Jim, which was enough to confirm that Beckett had not said a word about Agent Shaw's revelations. Jim was clearly focused only on his daughter and her recovery.

Castle's certainty of Jim's ignorance was further cemented because Beckett took advantage of Jim's momentary distraction gathering up his umbrella as the day was drizzly, to shoot Castle a look that enjoined discretion. Which he found mildly irritating because, really, did she think he was such a blabbermouth—and an idiot—to talk about this with Jim without Beckett's express permission? She'd trusted his discretion when it came to Montgomery's past but now, she seemed to be doubting it again.

Jim took his leave and Castle waited a few minutes to be sure Jim was well on his way. Beckett busied herself fussing with the blanket in a way that was uncharacteristic of her.

"I talked to the boys earlier," Castle ventured when it became clear Beckett wasn't going to start. Ryan had actually called him, although in characteristic fashion, the call had been on speaker with both Espo and Ryan speaking in strophe and antistrophe.

Her hands stilled but she didn't look up at him. "Oh?"

The little niggle of unease returned but he went on, trying to ignore it. He hadn't thought it would be that easy, had he? Beckett didn't confide easily. He wondered if she ever would. "Yeah. Agent Shaw did talk to them. They're up to speed and on board. Told me to tell you." As if there had ever been any doubt.

Beckett nodded. "Message received."

The flat terseness of her reply, as if he was little more than a messenger, had him frowning, the careful restraint he'd been exercising around her starting to slip. After yesterday, after everything they'd shared over the last couple weeks, he'd thought… "Beckett, you said we'd talk about this later and now it is later. So let's talk."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"You don't want to talk about this now, that's fine. I can wait."

"I don't want to talk about this," she repeated with even more finality, turning her face away as if her words had been ambiguous.

"You don't want to talk about this at all? Beckett, that's—" he bit off the rest of the sentence before he could say it was ridiculous or worse. She had suffered what he guessed was a panic attack just from learning Bracken's name; she had to be reeling from the impact of Agent Shaw's revelations, to have finally learned who was responsible for her mother's murder.

"Why do we have to talk about this?" she asked, a note of frustration entering her tone.

"Because we should talk about things. Beckett, this is what Montgomery died for." He hesitated and then forged bravely—or recklessly—on. "This is your mom's case!"

"Exactly!" She abruptly flared into animation, turning to face him. "This is my mom's case! My mom's case, my life, not fodder for inspiration for another book! My life is not your personal jungle gym! This has nothing to do with you!"

He flinched. He knew he'd intruded on her mom's case before but he'd apologized and she'd said she'd forgiven him. And did she really think he thought so little of her or her mom's case, that he would reduce it to a plaything, an adventure story? "I know it's your mom's case and believe me, I will never again do anything to interfere with it without your permission but after Montgomery, after everything about his past, I am involved in this now."

"No, you're not. You've done enough," she stated flatly.

Castle's temper stirred, the niggle of unease now flaring into outright fear and burgeoning hurt. "How can you even say that? You know I know how important this is to you! How important this is to both of us!"

"There is no us."

He gaped, too thrown by this sudden switch to talking about them, their fledgling relationship, to even feel hurt. At least, not yet. "What? You said you wanted this, to try for a real relationship. You said you wanted…" Me. He left the too-vulnerable sounding word unsaid and finished, "to be an 'us.'"

Beckett shut her eyes and turned away from him again. "I was wrong."

"Wrong?" he repeated, as confusedly as if she'd been speaking Swahili. For all he understood, she might as well have been.

"Yes! Or I lied, whatever! I thought I could do this but I can't! It's too much! It's—you're suffocating me! And I can't do this anymore!"

Castle stood on legs that felt strangely shaky, registering every word like the beginnings of the wounds they were, not quite conscious of pain yet but aware that they would be agonizing soon enough. "I'm suffocating you? All I've been doing, all I've tried to do, is be here for you." He had to force the words out.

"It's too much, everything, your worry, your sympathy, your pity. I can't take it!"

His filters dissolved in a corrosive mix of heartbreak and anger. "My—you think I'm here because I pity you?! Beckett, I'm in love with you, damn it!"

His words detonated like a bomb into the silence and he barely registered her sharp gasp as if she'd been punched, preoccupied by his own searing pain.

"I don't want you here. I don't want you with me anymore. Goodbye, Castle." Her voice was flat, ice to his fire.

She didn't want him. It was over, done.

He had told her he loved her—oh god, he had told her he loved her—and she didn't care, had sent him away. And he couldn't force her to care.

Castle turned and stumbled blindly out of the room, his shoulder knocking hard against the door jamb but he didn't notice. He might as well have been blind and deaf for all the awareness he had of his surroundings, the people who had to swerve around his uneven path. He needed to get away, away from her. For the first time since he'd met her, he couldn't bear to be near her.

He was yanked back to an awareness of time and place by the sharp sound of a baby crying. Even after so many years, some instinct from the time when he had always kept his ears pricked for the sound of Alexis crying remained. It pulled him back to an awareness of the rending pain in his chest. But having stopped moving, he couldn't get his unsteady legs to function properly again.

He managed to stagger a couple steps to collapse onto a chair, realizing belatedly that he was in the front lobby of the hospital, although he had no idea how he'd made it there.

Just feet away from where he and Jim had stood yesterday when Jim thanked him for being there for Beckett. Jim. Oh god, Jim.

Something inside him tightened, clenched, as if to ward off a blow at the thought of Jim Beckett, of the trust Jim had placed in him. Made worse because Castle honestly liked and respected Jim for his own sake and not only because he was Beckett's dad.

He would be breaking his promise to Jim. breaking his promises to Jim, to Captain Montgomery, to himself. To Beckett. He flinched.

He'd promised Jim that he wouldn't leave her alone in the hospital.

She was still in the hospital, in the ICU. He shut his eyes, the memory of the shooting, of seeing her fall to the ground, seeing her so still and covered with her own blood in the ambulance, flashing through his mind.

No. He couldn't break his promise. Not now. Not without talking to Jim first. There were more important things than his own broken heart.

Slowly, very slowly, as if he had to direct every individual muscle to cooperate, he forced himself to his feet and turned to return the way he had come. Not to her room—he could not bring himself to do that—but to the ICU itself. That much he could do.

Strangely, with every step he took—or maybe it was simply through trying to push past the pain in his chest—he found another emotion coming to his aid. Anger.

She had lied. She had let him become almost comfortable with the idea of their future relationship and all the while, she'd been hiding her true thoughts, her true feelings. In these past days, had she ever once told him he was hovering too much or not giving her enough space, anything to indicate she felt as if he was suffocating her? No, she hadn't. She'd stayed silent, not given him even a chance to explain or anything. She'd let him spend this entire last week in the hospital only to abruptly change her mind and all but shove him out.

He'd never thought Beckett could be so unfeeling but apparently he'd been wrong about that.

No, that didn't sound right.

He hadn't thought, hadn't realized—but in storming out of her room, he'd left the door wide open and no one had closed it yet. So although he hadn't planned or even wanted to see her again, certainly not now, he couldn't avoid it. He'd barely made it a few steps into the ICU when his eyes automatically found her door and saw her.

Even now, that first sight of her lying so still in a hospital bed struck him like a blow. He wasn't inured to it, let alone immune to it. He managed a couple more shaky steps and then froze entirely.

He could see her face now. She was crying. Not sobbing, just crying silently, tears streaming down her face in a way that somehow invoked more despair than even wild sobs would have conveyed. She looked pale and strained. Bereft, as if she'd just lost her best friend.

His crushed heart seemed to rebound back to painful life. He really did love her. This was what it meant to care more about someone else than he did himself. That even now, even after she'd broken his heart, he could not see this woman cry and remain unmoved. He could not see her cry and not want to comfort her.

His anger died. He stared, feeling as jolted as if someone had just dumped a bucketful of ice water over his head.

Why was she crying? He'd never seen, never imagined, Beckett crying like this. Never imagined her looking so bleak. Except, perhaps, when her mom had died… Oh god...

He walked back into her room and tucked a tissue onto the bed by her hand. He wasn't about to dry her tears himself but he couldn't leave her to cry alone either.

She gave a little gasp of surprise, her eyes flying open, but he didn't look at her just yet, turned away to close her door again. They needed to talk.

He turned back to see that she'd hastily tried to wipe away her tears and she was still not looking at him. She hadn't met his eyes at all today, he belatedly realized. She really had been avoiding looking at him for days. Something was very off about this.

"I don't believe you," he announced flatly, the words falling from his lips before he'd realized what he was going to say. He had no plans, no idea what he was going to say, no idea of what was going to happen now. For the first time since he'd met her, he had nothing to lose where she was concerned. She'd already broken his heart.

It was… freeing. It was an odd realization to have but it was true. When they'd first met, he'd been so impressed by her, fascinated by her, he'd immediately set out to flirt and try to make her like him—admittedly, not very wisely. Back then, he'd been so used to playing the jackass playboy everywhere outside of his own home that he'd barely felt like it was an act at all and he'd learned too late that Kate Beckett was the first woman he'd met in years who was not about to be won over by a celebrity playboy.

More recently, in the days since his first condolence visit to the precinct, he'd been so thankful to be back in her life and so afraid to be kicked out of her life again, that he'd watched his words and generally behaved himself as well as he could. And of course, he had carefully avoided betraying just how deep and how strong his feelings for her went. She'd barely accepted him as a friend and then a work colleague again and Beckett was not emotionally trusting to begin with; now was not the time to confess that he was irrevocably in love with her.

All that was gone now. There was nothing more to hide. He'd already blurted out the truth of his feelings—okay, practically yelled it at her.

What was that line from Austen, that seldom does complete truth belong to any human disclosure? It was true but he thought that now, after all this time, on his side at least, he was done holding back.

She wasn't looking at him and hadn't responded, only lay there as if she'd been stricken. Her passivity struck yet another wrong note in all this.

Slowly, the fog of hurt was starting to lift, his mind starting to function again. Something wasn't right. He needed to think about this, consider the evidence. Not just the words because if there was one thing he'd learned from working with Beckett and the cops, it was not to take people's words at face value, nullius in verba. Actions were more important, real solid evidence. He had to consider the evidence that would make this story make sense. Because right now, nothing made sense.

"I don't believe you," he repeated again, his words coming slowly as he tried to cudgel his brain into functioning. "I don't believe you really want me to leave," he went on, realizing as he said so that it was true and it wasn't only his own hurt and unwillingness to leave speaking. "You didn't meet my eyes and you're still avoiding looking at me. That's not like you." And she'd been crying. Her own actions, his leaving as a result of her words… somehow, in some way, what had happened hurt her, made her cry. And he knew Beckett didn't cry easily.

The other thing that wasn't like Beckett was the idea that she had lied before about wanting to try for a real relationship. Some women might say such a thing lightly but not Beckett. Beckett, who almost never spoke about anything personal and certainly never did so lightly. For her to say such a thing to him, for her to kiss him the way she had—no, she'd meant it. His ego aside, he knew Beckett. She didn't go around kissing men she didn't care about—nothing he knew about Kate Beckett indicated she was someone who had one night stands or meaningless flings. And even if she were, she'd known him too well and for too long for her to think they could have some meaningless fling and nothing more. She wasn't silly enough to think such a thing. Whatever Beckett's faults, silliness wasn't one of them. Maybe two years ago, back when they'd first met, they could have—well, no, at least not on his side because he couldn't imagine not falling for her, no matter what. One night or even a few nights would never have been enough for him.

He dragged his mind away from the hypothetical. It wasn't only her kiss(es) or even her words; it was the way she'd turned to him for comfort, holding his hand, letting him hug her. The way she'd let him decide what to do with the picture of Montgomery with Raglan and McAllister. She trusted him. And not just before her shooting but even yesterday, with Agent Shaw, she'd reached out to clasp his fingers, seeking comfort or reassurance from his touch when she'd needed it.

Small gestures perhaps where anyone else was concerned but for Kate Beckett, they spoke volumes. None of that was an indication of someone who actually felt suffocated by his worry and his caring. And if she didn't want him to hover, wanted some space, she would have told him so because since when was Beckett hesitant to point out his mistakes? She wasn't. It was one reason he trusted her so much because she was possibly the only woman outside of his family who didn't flatter him or otherwise treat him differently because of his money or his fame or his connections or his looks.

Something else was going on for her to push him away. He was suddenly sure of that. Jim himself had told him that Beckett cared about him and trusted him and it was clear that Jim Beckett knew his daughter well.

She was pushing him away and being Beckett, she knew how to do so, the chinks in his armor, so to speak, although where she was concerned, he wasn't sure he had any armor. Was terrifyingly vulnerable to her, as had just been demonstrated.

Pushing him away. Wait, the phrase tugged at him. She'd said the same thing, warned him in talking about the wall she'd built inside her. It won't be easy. I'll get scared and try to push you away but I do want to try and take down the wall.

That was what she was doing. Had almost succeeded in doing. It had to be what she was doing. It made sense, fit with what he knew of her. Because he knew she didn't trust easily, didn't like being vulnerable or showing weakness. It might have been the one honest, sincere thing she'd said earlier, that she couldn't stand being pitied.

"I don't pity you," he blurted out.

"What?" Finally, something he said got a response.

"Before, you said you couldn't take being pitied but I don't pity you. And I'm not staying with you out of pity; I'm staying with you because I want to. I've had plenty of experience at being away from you, Beckett, so believe me when I tell you that being near you is better. My life is better with you in it."

"But you can't!" she burst out and then went on, her tone brittle but still certain. "You say that now but you don't really know."

"I know you and that's enough."

"You only think you know me but you don't."

"I know that you crawled into your mother's murder and didn't come out," he shot back. "I know that you don't let people in and you're so afraid of being hurt that you don't allow anyone close enough to be able to hurt you. I also know that you deserve to be happy, you could be happy, if you'd just let yourself trust someone enough."

She'd lost any color she'd regained and tears were once again glistening in her eyes but her mouth remained set and firm.

"You don't understand," she bit off.

"I understand that you're trying to push me away right now because you're scared. But I told you before that I'm not going anywhere and I meant it."

"I'm not Nikki Heat! I'm not even the same person you think you know!" she flared. "Just look at me! I can't be that person anymore!"

"You're still Kate Beckett, still the woman I—" he broke off. No, saying that again was a step too far, even in his current state. "Care about," he finished instead.

Something that might have been a flinch flashed across her face. She knew what he hadn't said. Oddly, he felt a little heartened at the reaction because it meant she did care about his earlier admission of his feelings.

"Just look at me! I can't even sit up straight, let alone walk! How can you possibly—it wouldn't be fair!" she exploded, her own frustration escaping her, as she struggled to straighten up, only to fall back with a sharp hiss.

Oh. Oh, Beckett. What she meant was that it wouldn't be fair to him. Now he understood. Should have understood earlier. He'd been worried all along about how much Beckett would hate being so helpless, how she tried to hide all vulnerabilities. More than that, she didn't like relying on other people, didn't like asking for help. Not only because she was independent but because it was the kind of person Beckett was; she was someone who helped, a protector, shouldering other people's burdens, the weight of the world.

It was why he and Jim had needed to take turns not to leave her alone because Beckett wouldn't have allowed either of them to spend all their time in the hospital. And Jim had asked him to make sure Beckett wasn't alone, not in the literal sense but also figuratively, so she would know she didn't need to go through all this on her own.

Except this was Beckett and she wasn't the kind of person to allow anyone to shoulder her burdens for her. Even the way she'd turned to him in extremity, when Agent Shaw's news had pushed her to the edge—he should have realized Beckett would not react well to a show of vulnerability. Would not like the way she'd needed him. So like her to think of needing help of any kind as taking advantage.

It was one of the reasons he knew he could trust her, because Beckett took care of others, would protect him even from her own self if she thought it necessary. Lovable idiot that she was.

"It wouldn't be fair to me, you mean," he returned. No more evasion, no more subtext.

"Yes." Her tone was dulled, resigned, as if relieved she wouldn't need to fight anymore. "I know you're worried about me and you want to help me but I don't want you to. You didn't sign up for this. When you said… you wanted to be with me," her breathing stuttered almost imperceptibly as she forcibly controlled her tone, "you didn't know what would happen. And it wouldn't be fair."

He bit back the urge to promise her that nothing else mattered to him except for her, that he would do anything for her, that he would never leave her. Extravagant promises weren't what she needed to hear right now; she wouldn't believe them because in her experience, words were cheap. People lied. And not just to her as a cop but in her personal life too, he thought.

Oh yes, he understood her now. His chest felt as if it were being squeezed in a vise but he understood. Beckett didn't trust easily and he had to admit she hadn't had much reason to trust others or to rely on them.

Beckett trusted her dad, yes, but she didn't really allow herself to rely on Jim. Castle remembered what she'd first told him about Jim, about why she wore his watch. For the life she had saved. She had saved Jim—but when her mom had died, Beckett had been little more than a child herself. Castle was a father and as much as he'd grown to like and even respect Jim, he had to admit that for a father to fall so far that he would need to be saved by his child was a failure and a betrayal on Jim's part. An inversion of the way things should be. Parents were supposed to be the ones taking care of their children. And Beckett, so young herself and devastated by her mom's death, had not been able to rely on her one remaining parent.

And since then, who had been there for Beckett to rely on? Beckett the independent, the self-sufficient. He knew that about her but now he could see what had made her become so self-sufficient. Beckett was a survivor and she had survived by not relying on anyone else because no one had been there for her to rely on.

Even Captain Montgomery, her friend and her mentor, had ended up betraying her, keeping secrets from her. Montgomery had tried to make amends but it didn't entirely erase the fact that he too had betrayed Beckett.

Now Beckett was pushing Castle away to protect herself from future hurt, a preemptive measure because, he realized slowly, she didn't—perhaps could not—believe that he would honestly want to stay with her and take care of her. Beckett was the one who took care of others, not the other way around.

Oh, yes, he understood now. And understanding presaged forgiveness, the beginning of healing.

He looked at her with clearer eyes, saw her chin set with all the Beckett stubbornness. If he wanted her to really listen, accept that she was not using him, he would have to shock her out of her stubbornness. "If letting me stay with you, letting me help you, is your idea of taking advantage of me, you really suck at it."

"I—what?" She blinked, gaping at him.

"You are terrible at taking advantage of me. Try marrying me for my money and my fame and then abandoning me when you get bored. Or to keep it simpler, stick to the old-fashioned way of flattery and sucking up, convincing me you think I'm god's gift so you can use me for my money or my connections or my fame, whatever you want. I know what it's like to be used and that's not what you're doing."

He really was being honest. He wasn't sure he'd ever put into words before the stark—and ugly—truth about his life as Richard Castle, the celebrity. He didn't much like to admit it to himself even, let alone to anyone else. Pretending his life as a rich, handsome celebrity was a charmed one without any drawbacks was better, easier. And in all fairness, he knew perfectly well that he was lucky and whatever problems he had were minor in the grand scheme of things so he really had no reason to complain.

The single biggest thing his life lacked, that he'd never had, was a real, lasting relationship, a lasting love. A woman he could trust with all of himself, who would want him only for himself. And then he'd met Beckett. It was what he loved about her, well, one of the things. That she was possibly the only woman he'd met in years who didn't want anything from him, not really, or at least, what she wanted was just him, the man. She hated his celebrity status and his playboy reputation, wasn't interested in his connections. She didn't care about his money; she was one of the few people he knew who persisted in protesting when he paid for meals or anything else. The only things she'd ever allowed him to buy her without protest were cups of coffee and the occasional bear claw.

His little outburst succeeded in shocking her. She didn't respond immediately, only stared at him, and now for the first time in days, she wasn't avoiding looking at him.

"Do you really think I don't know what it looks like to be taken advantage of?" he asked more quietly. "I've been surrounded by people wanting to take advantage of me for their own reasons for years. I know what I'm getting into with you and I don't need to be protected from you."

It was a long couple minutes before she spoke and when she did, it was a mumble, mostly to herself rather than to him. "The white whale."

It was his turn to gape at her. Huh, what? Could she be delirious? Coming just after he'd plumed himself on understanding her, it seemed strangely fitting that she completely confused him now. He might know her but she would never stop surprising him. "What are you talking about?"

"It's just… do you remember the MADT fundraiser we went to a couple years ago?"

He blinked, confused but also strangely encouraged. She was responding to him, not arguing with him. Her tone, her expression, had changed. "Of course I remember. For the home invasion case. What does that have to do with anything?"

"One of the women there talked to me about you."

He still didn't understand. "Um, okay. Whatever she said, that was years ago now and I—"

"It wasn't anything bad about you, Castle. She just told me that other women, the ones who spend their lives going to those fancy parties, mingling with rich people, call you the white whale."

Well. Really. "I knew the women on the celebrity party circuit were ridiculous but I didn't realize they were that ridiculous." But he inwardly winced as he said so. Because, yes, they might have been using him but to be honest, he'd been perfectly willing to accept what they offered, had had more than his fair share of fun in letting himself be used, so to speak. It wasn't admirable and he wasn't proud of it but it hadn't exactly been a hardship to have a lot of nubile women flirt with him and more. And he didn't want Beckett to be reminded of his playboy past, that side of him she'd always disliked.

"Are you really sure?" Her question was quiet and her eyes dropped from his to look down at her blanket instead, at where her fingers were restlessly folding and then smoothing out the fold.

It was quite possibly the most inappropriate timing ever but he found himself strangely mesmerized by the movements of her slender fingers, her hands. "Sure about what?"

Her hands stilled. "Are you really sure about me, about… us? Even now?"

Us. The word jolted his heart and his eyes flew to her face. She was biting her lip in that way she had when she was considering something.

"Yes." He was as sure of her as he'd ever been about anything.

"But how… why… I'm not… good at relationships… And right now, I'm so…" She made a little gesture with her hands that indicated her hospital bed, their surroundings.

The reference to a relationship gave him the courage to reach out, sliding his hand under hers where it rested on her blanket, not exactly holding her hand because he didn't curl his fingers, only let his open palm rest beneath hers. She didn't pull her hand away. She didn't grasp his hand either but she didn't pull away, kept their hands together. It was enough for now.

Palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss, his literary mind inserted and he pushed the irrelevant thought aside.

"It's like I told you before. I know what it's like to be away from you. You're a hard person to miss, Kate Beckett. Even these last few days, being with you is better. It's always better to be with you."

"But I… hurt you. I tried to break up with you…"

He shrugged, trying with limited success for his usual insouciance. "I'm not that easy to get rid of."

"Castle…"

He bent, forcing her to meet his eyes. "It's okay. No lasting damage." He meant it. He'd been hurt but the wound would heal. She'd tried to push him away, not because she didn't care but because she did. They had more to talk about; there was still more healing to take place. But he knew she cared about him, still wanted him with her. It was a start.

Now, her fingers curled around his. And he felt the vise around his chest loosen as her grasp on his hand tightened. "Rick… I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven." Although, even as he said it, he thought he didn't have much to forgive her for. She'd hurt him but she'd been trying to protect him, from herself. His darling idiot Beckett. Her expression hadn't lightened enough for his liking. He managed one of his usual teasing smirks, threw in a little wriggle of his eyebrows. "Want to kiss me and make it better?"

She choked on a combination of a sob and the beginnings of a laugh. "Castle…" She lifted her free hand to cup his cheek and he lowered his head to give her greater ease of access. And then she kissed him, lifting her head just enough to close the distance between their mouths.

The kiss acted as a balm, soothing and healing the wounds left on his heart. Kissing Beckett could, he thought, heal every hurt he'd ever felt.

~To be continued…~

A/N 2: Thank you, as always, to everyone who's still keeping up with this story.