Chapter 19

Castle ambled back down the stairs and retrieved his excellent wine from his bedroom. Beckett looked askance at him. "Do you always have wine in your bedroom?" she queried.

"Only when I'm hiding it from Mother," Castle replied. "Otherwise, no. Wine belongs in wine racks and definitely not in bedrooms."

Her posture eased, and he suddenly realised that Beckett's view of hiding alcohol would be significantly skewed by her father's disease.

"I don't drink in bed," he smiled. "I might write, or read, or sleep, but not drink." She relaxed further, as Castle expertly opened the bottle and poured two glasses. "There. Try this."

She sipped, and raised an eyebrow. "That's really nice. You know your wines," she commented, a touch wistfully.

"I've had longer to try them than you. Enjoy it now." He didn't really want to focus on the age gap. Ten years felt vast, suddenly, and he didn't want to be reminded of it. He sat down next to Beckett, and put a warm arm around her slim shoulders, encouraging her to nestle in and be comfortable; feeling, with some reason, that gentle comfort was the order of the day. Pleasingly, she did nestle, cupping her wine glass in her hands and sipping slowly, savouring.

"He said he was going to rehab," she said, voice trembling, hands shaking. He took the glass from her before it spilled, and put it within easy reach. "He texted and said there was only one thing he could do. He was sorry. At first I thought…I thought…it read like he was going to…" She sniffed. "I really thought I'd driven him to it."

"You thought he was suicidal," Castle said bluntly, understanding instantly why Beckett had been so emotional.

"Yeah." She sniffed. "But he'd pressed send too soon, he said. He meant he was going to rehab. He's never mentioned rehab before. I suggested it once…" she trailed off, and sniffed again.

"He didn't take it well?"

"Something like that." The words were chopped short, and Castle concluded that there had been a vicious argument. He cuddled her closer. "But now he says he's going to go." She sighed. "I want to believe him." she said miserably. "I really want to, but if he fails again and I believed in him…I can't deal with that. I can deal with reality, it's the hope that kills me. Every time, he's let me down." Her voice broke. "Every time. I can't keep hoping."

Castle had a sudden, stabbing memory of his first thoughts on reading Beckett's diary. He'd thought…maybe she'd thought first that her father was suicidal because that was where she had been. Had been. Please God, not still was.

"It's not up to you, though," he said. "Your hopes are yours. He doesn't know about them. Well, he doesn't know now, because you told him you wouldn't keep bailing him out. He thinks you've given up, and that's why he's going to rehab. He's reached the bottom, and there's nothing – no-one – left there. He's going because he's finally realised that he can't lose you." He paused, but didn't look at her, sensing that her bent head concealed more tears. "He's found something that means more than booze to him, and it's you."

She buried her face in her hands. Castle pulled her round and into him and cradled her, rocking her as if she were a child. "But whether he gets dry or not isn't on you. It's down to him, and only him. You can't do it for him. You don't need to hope, because it won't make a difference. Only he can make a difference."

She was utterly silent, unmoving. Castle stopped talking, and, awkwardly around her, sipped his wine to cover his silence.

"I can't deal with it," she whispered. "I can't."

"You don't have to. You just have to wait. There's nothing more you can do."

"I hate waiting," she ground out. "I hate not being able to do something."

"You did do something. You stopped rescuing him. That started this, Beckett. Your action, his reaction. You've – maybe, but it's not up to you – set him on the path to salvation. If he saves himself, that's his choice. If he doesn't…well, that's his choice too. But it's his choice to take it. Not yours. Never yours." He took a breath. "It's not your fault."

She pressed her face into him, shivering, but still silent. Then – "But if I don't do something to help, how will he know I support his decision?"

Castle waited.

"Oh. He doesn't need to know. That's what you've been writing and saying all along. He has to do it on his own, not because of me or anyone or anything. Because he has to make that decision because he wants to do it for himself." She fell in against him again. "I get it. I hate it, but I get it. I did the right thing." She gasped in a breath. "Fuck, it hurts doing it."

"You wouldn't be human if it didn't hurt." He paused. "I guess you could be a sociopath. Or a psychopath. I can never remember which the one with no feelings is…" He stopped at her astonished gaze. "That was a thought that sounded better in my head."

"Where it should probably have stayed."

"No, I was saying that you weren't one – whichever one you aren't."

"Are you suggesting that I'm the other one?"

"No! Wait, stop being mean to me. You can't be mean to me when you're curled up in my lap and we've got wine, candy and movies."

Beckett managed a rather watery smile. "Gotcha," she said, but it wobbled a little.

"Nope. I've got you," Castle contradicted, and tightened his arms around her to prove it. "Now, what shall I do with you?"

"You could give me back my wine," Beckett suggested. She felt quite badly in need of the drink.

"That's refreshingly simple, though I was thinking of something equally simple and just as nice."

"I bet," Beckett muttered.

"Another movie, more popcorn – salty or sweet or some of each? – and snuggles. What sort of movie would you like? More anime, or action, or horror? Please don't say rom-com?"

"Action. Lots of bad guys getting their just deserts, preferably permanently."

"I have John Woo" – he was cut off.

"You do? Great, let's have those." She did love John Woo movies. She might not be able to murder bad guys with impunity, but the fantasy had brightened a lot of dull days. "Have you got Hard Boiled?"

"Of course. I have almost all of them. We can watch as many as you like." He slotted the DVD into place and returned to the couch. "Popcorn?"

"I'm happy with the candy," she said, slipping away and retrieving all of the bowls, which she lined up within easy reach.

"You're a candy fiend?" Castle said, surprised. "You look like you live on lettuce."

"Nope. Ready meals, takeout and candy – plus lots of running and gym work, and yoga."

Castle's eyes lit up. "Yoga? I like yoga. Or at least," he added, catching her quizzical glance, "I like watching other people do yoga. That sort of flexibility is amazing."

"I'm flexible," Beckett husked. "But you promised me a movie."

"I'll just make myself some popcorn and then we'll have the movie."

Beckett curled herself into the couch again, wine in hand, candy in reach, and nibbled and sipped while Castle swiftly made his popcorn and returned to cosseting her in. The movie began to play, and Beckett happily lost herself in the familiar plot and action scenes, enjoying them just as much as she had the very first time. Beside her, Castle was equally absorbed, cheerfully munching his popcorn and oohing and aahhing at each twist and turn.

When the movie finished, Beckett yawned widely and realised that, emotion driven tear-storms and sleeping half the afternoon notwithstanding, she was tired again. "I'd love to see another," she replied to Castle's suggestion of more, "but I don't think I can stay awake. I shouldn't be this tired," she complained.

"Why not?"

"I've been asleep all afternoon, practically. How can I still be tired?"

"Adrenaline crash."

"Uh?"

"You've been working at a higher level – didn't you say you'd got to do more interviewing? – and you've been worrying about your father non-stop – and now you don't have to worry any more so all the adrenaline that you've been producing to keep going has stopped – and so have you. So you're tired."

"I thought cortisol was the stress hormone," she said, but it wasn't convincing snark.

"It is. But adrenaline is the fight or flight one." There was a third option, but she was almost asleep and that wouldn't be any fun at all.

"Whatever," she conceded.

"You can just go to bed, you know. You don't have to stay up and be sociable."

"You're sociable enough for both of us."

"Why doesn't that sound like a compliment?"

"Experience?"

He laughed. "Mean. Possibly fair, but definitely mean. If you're going to be like that, I'll have to take strong measures."

"Uh?"

"I'll eat the candy." He swiped the bowl of Reese's Pieces, to a howl of outrage.

"Mine!" she squawked, and grabbed for them. Castle held the bowl out of her reach, but sadly she didn't fall for the – admittedly teenage – ruse. "Cheat," she sulked.

"You didn't fall for it," Castle sulked back.

"I'm not twelve."

"I know," he said in a very different tone. "Oh, I know." He bent forward, put the candy bowl down, and carried on to catch her in and kiss her hard.

Despite her exhaustion, Castle's kiss was as inflammatory as every other time, and she responded just as hotly – but then he stopped, which was definitely not the plan.

"You're exhausted," he said. She would have argued, but it was stopped by a huge yawn. "I'd kiss you all night, but it's so unflattering if you fell asleep while I did." He smiled. "The guest room's all made up, but" – he wriggled, suddenly and unusually shy – "I'd really like it if you slept in my room. Promise no funny business – unless you start it, of course – but I think you could really use someone to hold you tonight."

She stared at him. All that exited her open mouth was "Er-gleep?" which didn't seem to improve the situation any amount at all.

"Where would you like to sleep?" he repeated slowly and clearly.

"There," she answered, and pointed through the study to his bedroom door, lurching to upright. He took the line of most assistance, wrapped an arm around her waist and walked her there. "I could do it myself," she muttered.

"Wouldn't want you to get lost," Castle said smoothly, left her just inside his bedroom door, and collected her neglected overnight bag. "Here you are."

"Thanks," she managed, hunted down her washbag, and went through to the en-suite to clean up before falling into Castle's huge, and very comfortable, bed. She was asleep again almost before her lashes touched her cheeks.

Castle, coming back to check that she had everything she needed, was rocked back on his heels by the sight of Beckett, sound asleep, tucked up in his bed, on his pillows, face smooth and utterly unstrained for possibly the first time since he'd met her. Sleep, he thought, was the best thing for her, and though his undisciplined hind-brain had plenty of other ideas, they could all wait until she wasn't exhausted and wasn't crashing and was able to enjoy them without let or hindrance.

He wandered back out to sip the remains of his wine, tidy up (which involved finishing the popcorn, but not the candy), and contemplate the happiness of his life. If he'd never found the diary, he would never have met Kate Beckett, and that, he felt, would have been tragic. On which note, he went to write distinctly non-tragic meetings of his new female character with a reporter who bore a remarkable resemblance to himself, until, much later, he slipped into bed and spooned himself around a soft, warm Beckett, who made a contented noise in her sleep and nestled into him.

Life was just plain perfect, Castle concluded as he drifted into sleep.

Castle's sleep-soaked brain was prodded into wakefulness by a ringing phone, which wasn't his. It took him a second to realise that it was probably Beckett's, by which time she'd hit full awakening, found her phone and answered it.

"Beckett." Short pause. "Hey, Lanie. Isn't it a bit early for a Sunday morning?" Another small pause. "Uh…give me a few moments to think."

"Beckett?" Castle asked, too sleepy to take care. A loud squawk emanated from the phone.

"Lanie!" Beckett gasped, and blushed. "I'll call you back, okay?" She cut the call.

"Who was that?" Castle asked. "Who's Lanie?"

Beckett sat back down, and took a moment to consider how best to describe Lanie. "Uh…she's my friend," she began. "She's an ME."

"Oooohhhhh," Castle enthused. "I've never seen an autopsy. D'you think she'd let me watch? Can I meet her? I have so many questions already and I've only known she existed for ten seconds."

"I only got to know her properly three weeks ago."

"So what's she like? Thin and scholarly with glasses and all precise and correct?"

Beckett thought about Lanie Parish, ME and human tsunami, and howled with laughter.

"What'd I say?" Castle complained indignantly.

"Uh…she's not any of those. She's…um…" Beckett failed to come up with a description that wasn't totally incomplete or misleading. "Fun," she ended up.

"Can I meet her?"

"I guess. I'll ask her." Beckett swallowed. "She wants to meet up this afternoon."

Castle looked at her. "If you want to, why not?" He regarded her keenly. "You want to, but you don't want to upset me by going when yesterday didn't quite go like we planned? Why would I be upset? You've got friends, and you wanna see them. I've got friends too, and Alexis, and…well," he admitted, "I could spend every minute with you right now but that wouldn't be healthy and we're not two teens" –

"Yep. Me too. What you said." She kissed him. "How did you get that so fast?"

Castle squirmed uncomfortably. "Uh…writer, you know? I spend a lot of time working out motivations. I even took some psychology classes, and, well, I thought I needed to know about this stuff in case Alexis needs it even if she's only nearly ten right now and, um, I didn't want to be blindsided. But she doesn't get to date till she's twenty-one."

Beckett grinned evilly. "Like that's going to work." Castle pouted. "Okay. I'll call Lanie back in a bit."

"Not now?"

"No. There's someone I want to do first." He was still catching up when she shoved him back down into the pillows and pinned him to the sheets with her body. Surprise held him there, though he could easily have rolled them over, and then she kissed him slow and deep and sure, scrabbled blindly in the nightstand and found protection, and then sank on to him.

They were still entangled when Castle heard noises outside his study. "Alexis is awake," he said. "She won't come in, but… I need to get up."

"Can I shower?"

"Sure. I'll make breakfast."

Breakfast turned out to be substantial: cereal, waffles, bacon, fruit, orange juice and – of course – coffee. Well fed, well-watered and well-loved, Beckett sauntered home with a smooth sashaying stride, deeply contented with life. Around halfway, she remembered to call Lanie. That would be a good way to spend the afternoon, she thought.

Life was definitely looking up. From the dark days of a month previously, when everything had seemed lost, everything was going well. She called Lanie, arranged to meet for dinner, and swung home, perfectly happy with life.

At six, Beckett was in the relatively unfamiliar environment of a cocktail bar, wishing she'd put on a little more make-up. On the other hand, and for which she had not been wishing at all, she'd been here for less than ten minutes and four different men (and one woman) had approached her with varying degrees of chat up lines. The men had been despatched with one blistering reply each – honestly, could they not have been original? – and the woman with a polite advisement of not leaning that way.

Fortunately, Lanie arrived marginally before Beckett started wishing for her gun.

"Why haven't you got a drink yet?" she demanded. "Girl, you are just plain slow. You need to learn to have fun. Now stand up and hug me like friends do." Beckett complied. From a distance, she could see the woman who'd approached her looking annoyed. It didn't seem the moment to explain – "Why's that blonde giving you evil looks?" Lanie quizzed.

"Uh…she wanted to join me."

"So?"

"So I told her I didn't swing that way" –

"Nope, you swing with that Richard Ca" –

"Shush!" Astonishingly, Lanie did. "But since you're hugging me, I think she thinks I lied."

"I could really give her something to give you evils about," Lanie smirked – evilly.

"No, thank you. I don't want a show."

"You're no fun."

"Nope."

"Though you look like you've been having fun. Did I interrupt something this morning?" The smirk moved to a leer. "Let's get some drinks in, and you can tell me all about how it's going."

"Boundaries?" Beckett said hopefully.

"I deal with the dead. There are no boundaries."

"I do too, but I still have boundaries."

"Like I said, no fun. Let's get cocktails and move some of those boundaries. Friends gotta share, you know."

Beckett buried her head in the cocktail menu in an effort to hide her blushes, which hadn't diminished when she ordered.

"Now," Lanie said ominously, as the drinks arrived, "you still letting your dad go to hell in his own way? The right answer here, girl, is yes, in case you didn't realise."

"He's going to rehab."

Lanie's mouth opened, and slowly shut again. "He is? That's great. No need to ask more, then. Good. I wanna know how you're doing with that sexy boyfriend."

"We're doing okay," Beckett said temperately – but then added a very sly, knowing smile, simply to annoy Lanie.

"So he's moved on from being an uh?" Depressingly, Lanie was not annoyed, but curious, though curious was possibly too mild a word for her twitching nose and bright eyes. "Details! Stop beating around the bush, though I really hope he's found yours" –

"Shut up, Lanie!" Beckett said desperately. She suddenly thought of a diversion. "He wants to meet you. He's got questions about being an ME and he wants to watch an autopsy."

Lanie, for the first time since Beckett had met her, was silenced. For all of twenty whole seconds. Beckett counted them.

"Richard Castle, bestselling author, wants to meet me? Hell, yeah! When? Now? Call him and tell him to get that sexy butt down here – okay, so I've only seen it on TV and the gossip pages but it looked damn good there so it's sure to be just as good for real – right now" –

"He's got a daughter. He needs to look after her."

Lanie's over-excited face fell. "Not right now? Well, damn. That's a disappointment." She gulped down her cocktail, and ordered another round. "There's only one solution. Booze and food. Comfort food." She grabbed a menu and began to consider the comforting options of salt, fat, fried food and sugary desserts with cream.

Beckett regarded her friend's downcast face. "I'll text him now, and maybe I could bring him along to the morgue after shift when he comes to ask me all the questions about cop work?"

Lanie brightened up immediately. "Sure you can. Great idea." She grinned. "But we're still eating comfort food. You might be lean but I can't carry you home when you're that tall."

"I'm not carrying you home either," Beckett retorted. "I'll find you a fireman."

"Oooohhh, yes. One of those nice ones who do the calendar. They could do me anytime."

After that, dinner dissolved into drinks and desserts, again.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.