Chapter 25

She didn't come in with her gun drawn and pointed at his head, which had been a definite possibility, which was one plus. On the other hand, she wasn't falling into his arms and kissing him passionately, which was a definite and substantial minus. He gazed at her, noting the small signs of the lack of a full night's sleep; eyes then travelling back up to her face. She looked wholly serious, but not – yet – murderous.

"Here's your manuscript," she said, reaching into her purse and handing it over. He put it down on the table. "Some of your procedural stuff is wrong."

Castle boggled at her. "Say what?"

It was the last thing he'd expected to hear, from his dumbfounded face. "Your procedural details. They're wrong."

It wasn't what she'd meant to say. Then again, she hadn't got the faintest idea what she'd meant to say. Seeing him, desperate, clearly sleepless, and worried; but still the table laid for lunch with two wine glasses; though he couldn't have been sure that she'd stay more than the instant it would take to throw the manuscript at him and tell him to burn it and never contact her again – seeing his expression of mingled terror and frantic hope…

She wouldn't shatter the eggshell. She couldn't destroy him. Them.

"It doesn't mean I'm not angry with you," she said, not angrily at all, though she meant to be. "But…she's not me. She's herself." She stopped. Castle's face held an expression that she was dead certain sure she wasn't meant to see: as if she'd seen straight into his soul. Relief, hope, and something more.

"I thought you'd say scrap it all," he whispered, and took the two strides necessary to reach her. "I really thought…but I had to let you." He gathered her in, and leaned on her: the pattern of his breathing hinting at fought-back tears. "It would have killed me to destroy it."

"It would have destroyed you. And then us," she murmured. "And she's not me. Just enough not me for it to be… not okay, but bearable. I can deal with it."

He buried his face in her hair, and clung to her, unspeaking but shuddering. She slid her arms around him, and hung on as, mutually, they moved to the couch: lunch neglected on the table.

After a while, the silence was broken by a thunderous noise from Castle's empty stomach, which prompted them to unfurl from each other – marginally.

"There's lunch. Chicken salad, French bread, white wine if you want it," Castle said. "I think I'd better eat."

"Yeah." Beckett realised that she was hungry too. "Let's eat."

Nothing important was said during their delayed lunch, but Castle was evidently thinking. A small crease developed between his brows, and his eyes were turned inwards. Eventually he spoke.

"I got the procedural stuff wrong? Which bits? How? I thought I'd been so careful."

"Uh…" Beckett said, suddenly recognising the look in Castle's eye as the one he'd had when his inspiration had hit in her bed and he'd seen nothing and nobody outside of his own skull until he'd written it down.

"You have to show me where so I can get it right," he said. "I'll go get my laptop and you can show me on the printout and I'll edit."

"Uh, what?"

"You show me and I'll edit, if you tell me how it should be. It needs to be right, so let's correct it now." He was quivering on the chair, on the verge of dashing to his study, totally focused on his story. "Come on."

When she didn't instantly move – since she was still eating her salad – he grabbed her free hand and tugged.

"I haven't finished!" she complained.

"You can do this and eat."

"You bring the laptop and the document. I'm not moving."

"Okay then." He raced off, and raced back with the laptop, whipping up the paper pages as he returned. "Right. Where was the first problem?"

"Hold on. Don't you need to get Alexis from school?"

Castle paled, and checked his watch. "Not yet," he exhaled. "I'll set an alarm so I don't miss it."

Beckett stared at him. Evidently he was going to spend the entire time with her dredging from her brain every procedural error he'd made – and correcting it. This…well, she hadn't expected anything, but Castle in full forward writing mode resembled – and was almost as stoppable as – an M1 Abrams tank. He really was setting an alarm. Dear God, what had she gotten herself into here? She breathed in, and out again. Easiest, she decided, to ride the storm, and started to flip pages with her non-fork-wielding hand.

"Okay…" she said. "Page forty-six" – and they began.

Part way through, Castle's phone rang, and he disappeared. Beckett took a very necessary break, but when she returned, he was grinning. "That was the PI," he said. "Got the sonofabitch – police picked him up this morning in LA. Papers on their way to the prosecutor now. Mother will be delighted, though the money's gone. But revenge is very sweet."

"Great," Beckett congratulated, intending to reward him with a kiss, but Castle was already returning to the manuscript. "Okay, next," he said, his entire focus back on his book.

Castle's alarm went off, and both of them jumped.

"I have to go get Alexis," he said. She shifted. "Don't go. I won't be long. Can you mark the next few mistakes on your copy so we can find them faster?" Yet again, she stared. "I don't want you to go home. I want you to stay – oh." His face fell. "You didn't bring a bag." It lightened again. "I know! You go home and get your overnight bag, while I pick up Alexis, and then we can carry on and all have dinner."

"Uh…okay," Beckett said weakly.

"Great. We're getting on really well. It won't take long."

Beckett doubted that. They'd been going for – wow, over an hour – and they'd got from page forty-six to page one hundred. Of four hundred. At this rate (she thought for a second) there were another five-plus hours to go – with Castle buzzing like a bumble bee on crack cocaine, extracting every last tiny detail from her neurons – even ones she hadn't known she knew. It was – he was – worse than Montgomery, pre-promotion, grilling her on everything she might need to know as a detective.

Still, staying the night sounded good. "Okay," she said. "Okay."

Castle enveloped her in a huge bear hug. "Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you. I…I knew it was a huge risk that I'd lose you, but I had to tell you."

"Why wait?"

Castle stopped. "Uh, um…I knew I had to tell you sometime but sometimes things just fizzle out or don't work out well and if it never came to anything there would be no problem…so I put it off till it was done."

"I see," Beckett said, neither approving nor disapproving.

"I'd better get gone," Castle said. "Take a key." He rootled in a drawer and tossed her a key, which Beckett caught. "What?" he said. "If there's something delaying me – teacher discussion – then you can get in rather than standing in the hallway."

"Urp," Beckett muttered inelegantly, and tried not to be shocked at how easily Castle had simply – broken another barrier. She'd refused to take a key for weeks, and here it was in her hand with no way of refusing that didn't look spitefully, childishly, stupidly nasty.

Forty minutes of infuriatingly slow subway later, Beckett had made it back to her apartment. Fortunately, packing a bag was rapid. Unfortunately, during the halting journey, she'd had far too much time to think, and the thought that wouldn't leave her mind was oh shit this will really blow my chances of friends in the bullpen. They'd all know the character was based on her, and…being famous – or more likely notorious – wasn't going to make her any friends with people with whom she might want to be friends. There would, no doubt at all, be plenty of people who would try to cosy up to her in the hope of fame.

She'd made her decision when she'd told him he'd made mistakes with procedure. Right now, though, the implications crashed down over her. She'd be a marked woman for the rest of her days with the NYPD. It wasn't her – but would anyone actually believe that?

She had to talk to him about this. Without thinking, she picked up her bag and, this time, took her cruiser back to Castle's, so that she had it ready for the morning. Going up in the elevator, she had no idea how to start this conversation either – except that she certainly was not having it in front of Alexis. Maybe by later in the evening she'd have thought of a way to put it that didn't make her look like an it's-all-about-meeeee! overdramatic spoilt brat.

She entirely failed to realise that she was thinking of this as a problem they could deal with together, which was another barrier crumbling.

Before trying the key, she tapped on the door, but hearing nothing – despite the length of time she'd taken – unlocked it and went in, not without a frisson of discomfort. She put her bag in Castle's room, and went back to the manuscript, making herself a coffee and then starting where they'd left off: marking each mistake as he'd asked; forcing herself to skim read to find them and not to read the whole book again. She was horrified how hard that was. Concentrating hard, she didn't hear the door open and Castle's swift shush of Alexis.

She jerked upward with a swiftly-strangled exclamation when he laid a hand on her shoulder.

"It's me."

"Oh. Right." She shook her head to clear it.

"Hi, Detective Beckett," Alexis said, wandering up. "Have you come for dinner?"

"Yes."

"Good. I like it when you're here." The girl's gaze fell on the papers. "That's Daddy's manuscript! Why are you reading it? He never lets anyone read his manuscripts till Gina sees them – he'll be really angry with you." She turned. "Daddy! Detective Beckett's reading your manuscript!"

"Yes, I know. I asked her to."

"But you never" –

"Research, pumpkin. Detective Beckett is correcting my mistakes around police procedure." He cast a glance at the latest page. "And it looks like there were more of them than I thought."

"But Storm doesn't" – Alexis evidently got it. "A new book? Not Storm? Wow. What will Gina say?"

"It's not up to Gina. And that's not something you need to worry about. Now, how about you set the table and Detective Beckett can help me make dinner?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"What do you want me to do?" Beckett asked.

"Can you chop mushrooms and onions, and I'll chop the meat and the bacon after I've put some rice on?"

"Okay." Beckett was handed a small, sharp knife, and began to chop. Shortly, she had a small pile of neatly sliced vegetables. "Anything else?"

"Garlic." That took little longer. Castle was competently cooking the chopped bacon, to which he added the onions.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked – and her phone chirped.

"Can I just check this?"

"Sure."

Beckett slipped off to a corner in case it was the precinct calling her in, and then gulped and disappeared through the study to the en-suite of Castle's room, where she locked the door against the world and stared, paralysed, at the screen. Then she threw up until there was only bile.

Katie. Rehab's been really hard. But I finally got my seven day chip. It's taken me six attempts, but I made it. You were right. Don't answer this. I need something to aim for, and it's seeing you when I deserve to. That's not now. Please, Katie, don't. As soon as I've made it far enough through, I'll call you. I love you, Bug.

She fought back the tears until they were vanquished, rinsed her mouth until she couldn't taste the acid bite of vomit traces, and wiped her face. She couldn't do anything about the now-missing make-up, and Castle was bound to notice – but he wouldn't say anything in front of Alexis. Oh. Alexis was observant, and she would likely notice. That wouldn't save her from the inquisition later, though. Hang on. Misery had made her stupid. She had make-up in her overnight bag. She could paint on her normal face, and Castle wouldn't know.

He would. But he wouldn't be sure, so he'd have to wait, and there would be nothing for Alexis to notice. She redid her make-up, flushed the toilet once more and then sprayed some air freshener around, and went back out. She badly wanted her diary, to write it out: her hope and her hurt.

"Dinner's almost ready," Castle said, his back to her as he stirred the dish.

"Great."

He turned around, and his eyes widened, but he kept his mouth shut, all through dinner and beyond, till Alexis was abed and they were alone.

"Do you want paper and a pen?" he asked, to her flabbergasted face.

"I…yes. But…"

"Obviously it's your dad. You've heard – something." She swiped her phone on, and shoved it at him. One fast flick of eyes later, Castle simply hauled her into him and held her firmly. "Just stay here. It's a hell of a thing to deal with." She slumped against his chest. "When you're ready – if you want to – I'll find you a pen and paper. Or you can go home, if you want to." Her head shook in negation. She stayed silent and chillingly still for some time.

Finally she stirred. "There's something else. Not just Dad, though…" She sniffed, and forced back misery. "The book. You've based her on me. The bullpen's all going to be watching and waiting and wondering… I'm the newest rookie. It's going to destroy any chance of me being accepted, just as I'd won a place there."

Castle thought for a moment. "What do you know about publishing timescales?" he eventually asked.

"Nothing. It's not normally a key point for a cop."

"Mm," he said. "It takes up to two years from first draft to hitting the bookstands. And my next book is a Storm – there's one just about to be released, the next one in late editing, another one that Gina – my editor – is just starting on, and the Storm I'm writing now."

She gaped at him. "Huh?"

"It takes ages. I never knew how long it took when I was dreaming of making it," he reminisced. "But it really does. Black Pawn publish one of mine every six to nine months or so, which is why there are so many in the process, but…no matter where the new one goes, it won't go anywhere for nearly two years. And we can delay that by submitting this Storm first, and keeping this one back. In two years, or a bit longer, you won't be the new rookie and you'll have a reputation of your own."

"Really?"

"Yep. You can Google the process, if you don't believe me."

"No, I do, it's just…" She trailed off, and leaned on him again. "I don't need to worry about that?"

"No." He dropped a soft kiss on her hair. "Do you want a pen and paper?"

"Yes," she said. "Please."

Dear Diary. Dad's trying. But he says he doesn't want to see me or hear from me. He says it's because he doesn't deserve to until he's done more, but…what if that's just an excuse? What if he just doesn't want to see me because I abandoned him?

But he's trying to get dry. He's tried and tried, again and again. And he's made it seven days for the first time in five years. He must have a reason. And why lie to me now, when he could just have stayed away?

I can hardly bear to hope, but I can't help hoping. He's really trying.

The ink blotted and spread. Her head drooped. Castle came out from his editorial haze and plucked her away from the table, cossetting her and then cradling her in until the storm passed and she was still and soft in his arms.

"Bedtime, sweetheart," he murmured. "Let it go till the morning." She gave an assenting little hum, and uncurled from his embrace.

"I think he really wants to," she said, taking Castle's hand. "But I still can't bear to hope."

"It's okay. He has to make it for himself." He tipped her face up, and kissed the unhappy line of her mouth. "You've tried. He wouldn't have it till you left, and now he's trying. You did the right thing – the least bad choice when there were no good choices in the situation."

"That's what Pawlowitz said about the shooting," she said thoughtfully. "Once I was in the situation, there were no good choices left, so I made the best one I could out of a bad lot. You're all saying the same thing." She paused, and began to find her nightwear in her bag, her face hidden. "Usually," she said, apparently irrelevantly, "I don't listen – no, I don't trust – people's words. People lie to cops, whether they're guilty or innocent. So the words aren't nearly as important as the actions and the evidence. That's how it is – was – with Dad. Whatever he was saying, it was what he was doing that mattered." She straightened up, a handful of silky, navy fabric flowing from her fingers. "What he was doing was drinking, whatever he said. Till now."

Her face was still hidden. "When I lost my diary, I'd given up hope. Everything was wrong: Dad, Mom – I still want to find her killer, but I can't kill myself doing it, and that's what I was doing – I was the new kid on the team and it wasn't comfortable so work wasn't right either and then Montgomery caught me in Archives and told me if I carried on he'd bench me and I couldn't bear that. I was right at the bottom. I just wanted to give up. Throw it all in and…" She stopped. "I don't know. Whether I would have or not. But I was thinking about it."

Castle watched her from his seat on the bed, not touching her. She had to get this out, whatever she was about to say.

"And then you turned up." She paused, and turned round, an odd light in her eyes. "I'd read all your books, because my mom had them, and…they kept her close even though she was gone. You were just like the picture. But after you showed up, everything changed. What you wrote in my diary – for the first time, I felt like someone actually cared. It made the difference. Someone thought I mattered, when even my dad was showing that I didn't." She coloured delicately. "And then you weren't who your PR said you were. You were happy, and, well…you made me happier."

She took the few steps towards him, and stood there, before him, navy fabric in her hand, a sheen on her eyes but a smile on her lips.

"But it all started with what you wrote in my diary. Your words. Your words saved me," she said, and kissed him.

Epilogue

Dear Diary. Today is my wedding day, and my sober Dad will walk me down the aisle to Castle. I couldn't be happier. His words saved me, and now saying 'I love you' and 'I do' to him are all the words I'll ever need.

Fin.

Thank you to all readers, reviewers, followers and favouriters. You are all very much appreciated.

Unless I have some other inspiration, the next story won't be for a little while, and will be a Caskett Cats long story, starring Caskett and the now teenaged twins.

In the unlikely event that you don't already know, my three original novels, a series of romantic cop fiction in the same vein as Castle, are all on Amazon: Death in Focus, Death in Camera and Death in Sight, under SR Garrae. The fourth is, well, started.

Hope everyone stays safe in these difficult times.