Disclaimer: I do not own Castle or the recognizable characters who appear in this story. Any other names, for characters or businesses, are fictional, uncompensated, or are in the public domain.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Beckett stepped out for a meeting," the bored receptionist offers with false solicitousness. "Would you like his voicemail?"

"No, thank you," Beckett manages not to growl in reply before she disconnects her call. Of course he stepped out. Castle knows better than to visit with her father where he can be pulled out of the meeting. Or where an unexpected guest can join them. Well, too bad, Castle – I know exactly which café dad would pick for a meeting, she thinks as she reaches for her pocketbook.

"Detective Beckett," she hears Gates say from over her shoulder, slowly closing her eyes and clenching her teeth in frustration. After a deep, calming breath she turns to face her captain, who can apparently divine the intentions of her new charges.

"Your team is up," Gates says as she walks over to hand off a note-card with the address. "Examine the scene then report in on your next moves," she commands before turning to return to her office without awaiting a reply. So much for the hope of any residual goodwill following Castle's visit.

Beckett nearly howls in frustration. Half an hour ago she was longing for a case. Now, with Castle enjoying unfettered access to her father, she's thinking seriously about bailing on her job.

"Don't do it, Beckett," Esposito warns after sidling over with Ryan in tow. "You know she'd find out about it," he says with a nod to Gates' office. "We're on thin ice right now – better save the insubordination for when things are really bad."

There's too much wisdom in his comment to ignore, though she doesn't capitulate gracefully. The elevator button's never been pressed so savagely and she's sure she nearly shattered the window in her cruiser when she slammed the door. The traffic flow seems to be reclaiming this morning's kindness with interest, with road construction, two breakdowns, and a truck-into-foodcart collision slowing her drive to a crawl.

By the time she reaches the crime scene, Beckett's in a towering temper. As she stomps into the alley, Ryan and Esposito give her a quick look and decide to cut a wide berth, offering her the first approach.

"Ah, the lovely Detective Beckett," she hears as she turns into the loading bay where the body was found, "a pleasure to have you back," offers Sydney Perlmutter, the ME at today's scene. "Does this mean we have to suffer…"

It's too much. Too much to be reminded of how Castle was treated when he was here, how they let him be treated, how they paved the way for his solo ventures. On top of all the confusion and strife of today, it's just too much.

"Don't," Beckett snarls as she skips the body and stalks directly to the ME. "Don't you ever say another word about Castle. Not. One. Word. Understand?"

"I didn't… I mean…," Perlmutter gulps, unfamiliar with this treatment and wondering if he's finally pushed too far or if this is a behavioral change in Beckett following her shooting. "Okay."

"Talk to them," Beckett replies, hiking a thumb at the boys and striding away from Perlmutter, unwilling to deal with him again. Instead, she paces around the body, making observations about what looks like a simple mugging-gone-wrong. It looks unlikely this will be a weird one, which means she'll have nothing to distract her from the chaos of her personal, professional, and familial lives. Great.

Luckily, her prediction about the case proves to be true. Closed-circuit cameras installed to deter theft from the trucks that use the loading back captured footage of the mugging, including both perp and victim. The resolution is grainy, but they have enough to start a canvas with pictures rather than an artist's sketch. It's all rote, laborious investigation. And Beckett's barely tracking due to her growing distraction.

Lunch came and went without notice. It's not unusual to work through lunch, though they'd gotten out of the practice when Castle's moaning was most easily stopped by eating regular meals. But she'd expected to hear from her father. Whatever the reason for the visit, Castle wouldn't linger, if only to minimize the chance that she'd track him down.

She'd expected her father to contact her right after the meeting. Then, she thought maybe he'd want to step away from his office and contact her during lunch. Now she's starting to wonder if he's going to reach out to her at all and what it might mean if he doesn't.

Beckett grows increasingly agitated throughout the afternoon, replacing a skipped lunch with more and more caffeine. She's noticeably jittery and short-tempered, finally reaching the point where her team tries to intervene.

"Hey, Beckett," Esposito calls over in a jovial voice, trying to lift her spirits even as he dispenses unsolicited advice. "You're lookin' a little wired over there. Time to cut off the coffee, right?"

"Try to limit my caffeine," Beckett answers in a much less humorous tone, "and something'll definitely get cut off."

They didn't try to intervene after that.

The worst deterrent to her concentration sits atop her desk, right next to her computer. She'd tried to put it away several times, but always ended up putting her gift from Castle back on her desk. She could reach out. All she needs to do is open that box (the box that's a stand-in for the one he dreamed of giving her, she marvels once again), type in her badge number, and ask him what's going on. She knows she doesn't have a good reason for avoiding that option, just pride and anger, but her stubbornness hasn't yet been sufficiently eroded by fear or curiosity to take that step.

Besides, she kind of likes the look of the box on her desk.

Her sigh of relief when she sees her father's name come up on an incoming cell call is nearly strong enough to propel her chair away from her desk. Clutching her phone, she's already up and moving toward a conference room to claim a little privacy when she answers.

"Dad?" she prompts, happy and worried and frustrated.

"Hi, Katie. You okay?"

"Fine," she replies automatically before thinking back to her conversation with Castle about that word. "I'm fine."

"Good to hear," her father replies, though he sounds a little doubtful. "I was calling to see if you might be up for dinner tonight?"

She's so happy, so thankful he reached out that she accedes immediately. "Of course."

"Claire's at 9:00?" he suggests. "It's a little late but you'll have time to get over there, even if you need to work late."

"I'll be there," she promises, "even if I have to sneak out or quit to make it on time."

"Hi, Katie," Jim rises to greet her as she arrives at their table. She's ten minutes early but still the last to arrive. Perhaps she's not the only one nervous about the topics on tonight's dinner agenda.

"Hi, dad," she replies while hugging him tight, using their greeting as a quick respite to gather her strength.

They take their seats quickly. Beckett's already wondering about how to start the conversation when her father gestures to her menu. "Let's order first," he suggests. "That way we won't be interrupted."

Beckett nods at this, grateful for her father's gentle guidance. She flips open her menu only long enough to select a pasta dish, looking for something warm, filling, and comforting. Not surprisingly, Jim adopts a similar approach. They order their meals when the waiter stops by for their drink orders, a subtle sign of their impatience.

The small talk preceding the arrival of their entrees is both excruciating and comforting. They both know they're procrastinating, but the chatter is also a good reminder that they're not alone. Shaken and trimmed, their family tree survives.

They both take a deep breath when the food arrives. The waiter takes offense, jumping to the conclusion that his guests feel like they need to fortify themselves before tucking into the food. He departs in a pique that goes unnoticed by father and daughter.

"So," Jim finally starts after a bit of his penne, "I'm not sure if you know about this, but…"

"Castle visited you today," Beckett interjects, her anxiety making her jumpy. She blushes at her father's perched eyebrow, but forges ahead. "I know he went to see you but I don't know why."

Jim nods slowly, then takes a few moments to sip from his ice water. "He came to apologize," he says slowly, watching a look of confused surprise spread across his daughter's face.

"He what?!"

"But we should start with my apology," Jim continues, ignoring her question.

Beckett places her fork on her plate. She can't taste the food anyway and the pretense of even a simple meal is a distraction. Hands clasped in her lap, she focuses her full attention on her father.

"I'm so proud of you, Bug," he says quietly, gently laying his own fork aside. "You're so strong, so beautiful," he praises while Beckett blushes and lowers her head, not sure she feels like either of those statements are true but holding them close to her heart nonetheless. "You turned out so well."

Taking another drink of water to fortify himself, Jim takes a deep breath and continues with a quivering voice. "I'm not sure I ever told you how happy I was, how grateful, that you let me back into your life."

"Dad," Beckett replies in a shaky voice herself, looking up and reaching across the table to clasp her father's hand. "You told me," she assures him. "I knew."

"What you don't know," he forges on after thankfully clasping her hand, "is how scared I am that I might fall again."

"You're not drinking again, are you?" Beckett asks immediately, terrified.

"No," Jim assures her, bringing his other hand to their clasp. "Not again. Never again," he promises her. But her wide-eyed stare haunts him, drives him to explain. "But drinking isn't the only thing that could make me lose you."

"Dad, you're really starting to scare me."

"I visited Rick," he explains heavily. "Back in the spring."

Perhaps its learned behavior from the precinct or perhaps it's an innate familial insight. Whatever the cause, Beckett remains silent so nothing will distract her father from explaining.

"I was worried," he admits nervously. "Nervous about how you were acting and nervous I'd lose you if I mentioned it to you."

She so desperately wants to fire off questions to drive the conversation forward that she needs to bite her lip to hold them back.

"So, I went to Rick's home," Jim confesses, looking down. "I asked him to get you to stop. Told him that I'd already lost my wife and didn't want to lose my daughter, too," he confesses, looking ashamed of himself. "It was a terrible burden to place on his shoulders."

"Oh, dad," Beckett groans, leaving her hands in his but dropping her head to shelter behind her hair. She'd said… horrible things to Castle in their conversation when he asked her to step away from the investigation. The investigation that led to the death of her captain and nearly herself. The investigation that he's now leading himself.

"I'm sorry, Katie," her father replies, brokenhearted. "I was so worried and I… I did the wrong thing. And…," he trails off again, building his resolve to finish his confession. "And I blamed him for failing you."

Beckett can't speak around the lump in her throat but shakes her head in a wide arc, letting her flying hair indicate her rejection of his comment.

"It wasn't Castle's fault," Beckett defends in a low whisper. "It was never Castle's fault. If anyone's to blame," she works herself up for her own admission, "it's me."

They sit in silence, father and daughter both thinking about the events that happened this summer and what might've gone differently had Jim approached his daughter directly or if Beckett had reacted differently to Castle's attempt to pull her back.

"Rick said he's going away," Jim mentions to restart their discussion as he dabs at his eyes with a napkin, providing cover for his daughter to do the same. Castle's departure surprised him, both because he'd have expected to hear the news directly from his daughter and because the timing seems odd now that she's finally back in the city. When Beckett doesn't answer, he continues. "He wanted to see me before he left. To apologize," Jim continues, choking up again, "Apologize for not getting you to stop. For not protecting you at the funeral."

"Not his fault," Beckett repeats through her tears, voice heavy and heart heavier.

"That's what I tried to tell him, too," Jim commiserates. "I don't think he believed me."

No, he probably didn't, Beckett thinks. He flatly rejected the notion that he protected her, earlier today when they spoke at the precinct. It sounds like Castle's also carrying some misplaced guilt on his scarred shoulders. The image nearly makes her sob.

"Did he say anything else?" Beckett asks, wondering if their interview held any other terrible surprises.

"No," Jim replies, freeing a hand to lift his water in an effort to clear the lump in his throat. "He said he needed to leave town to tend to some family business, apologized, gave me a letter, then left. Our meeting might've taken fifteen minutes."

Which means she wouldn't have caught them even if she'd skipped her case and left the precinct (and maybe her job) to find them. But Beckett doesn't think about that until later. Right now, she's focused on a different portion of his reply. "A letter?"

Jim nods, then uses his free hand to reach into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket. He extracts a dove gray envelope and sets in gently on the tablecloth, sliding it over until it bumps her hand. With a surprising quirk to his lips, Jim nods at the envelope and says "I assume he meant you."

She's confused by his comment until she turns the letter over and sees that it's addressed simply to Beckett in Castle's distinctive hand.

Pulling her hands back, Beckett uses one to lift the letter and the other her unused table knife. The envelope is heavy in her hand – the paper fine and thirsty for ink, the envelope foil-lined – exactly what she'd expect from a writer. Setting the knife down after slitting open the envelope, she extracts the single-page letter nestled inside with a trembling hand.

Beckett,

There was something your father and I needed to discuss, something I owed him. Please don't be angry with him for seeing me. And please don't worry that I told him anything that would cause trouble. Your father's a good man, Kate, one who clearly loves you dearly. I'm doing this because I'm a father, too. Trust that I won't interfere with the relationship the two of you share.

But, perhaps I can help without interfering?

The time may come when it becomes necessary to protect your father. I don't know him well, but if he's like his daughter, he'll be too stubborn and prideful to simply retreat. If I'm wrong, then send him away when we near the end. If I'm right, though, I have an option for you.

My attorney Henry has a legal project that would benefit from your father's expertise. It's necessary, legitimate work that is self-contained and can be done remotely. Henry has my authorization to retain your father's firm, and your father in particular, to handle this project. There's a facility in which the documents are housed where your father can stay for the duration of the project, a facility that has no connection to me. There's room for you, too. I know you won't use it, but I wish you would.

Henry also has resources for you and your father. Take them, please, and use them well. I know you'll protect your father, Kate. I offer one alternative, though I'm sure you'll come up with others. Whatever you decide, please don't let him go to the cabin. If it was ever a refuge, it is no longer.

Be safe,

Castle

Beckett's efforts to choke back a sob are only partially successful as a whimper escapes. She wondered what Castle was doing with her father. She's not sure what she imagined, but she thought Castle was drawing her father into his scheme in some way. Instead, Castle was taking steps to protect Jim. Just as he did Alexis and Martha.

There's no doubt the letter is from Castle, either. The little doodle beneath his signature is proof. It's a ridiculous little squiggle, something he'd explained on one of their interminable stakeouts. It's what he remembers most about reading the Hardy Boys while hiding a light beneath his bedsheets as a seven-year-old rebel: the Hardy father's habit of including a unique symbol beneath his signature in ordinary correspondence, so that if he was ever impersonated or taken hostage the lack of a symbol would alert his sons to his duress. And there, beneath the symbol, Henry's contact information.

Every time she wants to howl in frustration, to deride her partner, he does something like this. Something so impossibly sweet that she can't help but…

"Bad news, Bug?" Jim asks, interrupting his daughter's musings.

"No," she answers, wiping another errant tear with the back of her hand. "Just typical Castle," she answers, a small, wistful smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

Again they lapse into silence. Jim gives his daughter some time to think, since the letter she clasps so tightly in her hand clearly means something to her.

After a few moments, Beckett slowly refolds the letter and carefully slips it back into the envelope, pressing it into place before delicately centering the letter on the table before her and covering it with her hands. Then, after staring at the envelope, Beckett slowly raises her eyes to her father.

"You went to Castle, not Josh," she says, a statement rather than a question.

"I'd heard about Rick for years. I knew how deeply you cared about him," Jim explains to his daughter, watching her blush, "even if you were still figuring it out."

After waiting for his comment to hit home, Jim decides to push just a little bit. "Besides, after all the crazy things you told me Rick convinced you to do, I thought he might have a shot at getting you to slow down."

But his effort to tease backfires. He watches as his daughter lowers her head again, returning her gaze to the letter.

"I didn't listen," she admits quietly. "Obviously. But it's not just that I didn't listen. I didn't want to hear what he was saying, so I went on the offensive. I was terrible to him, dad," she confesses, closing her eyes to fight back the tears. "And then I tried to get him kicked out so he couldn't try again."

Now Jim looks guilty, too, feeling responsible for creating the situation that led to such harrowing times for his daughter and her partner. He's about to apologize again when Kate starts speaking again.

"I would've died," Beckett continues, missing her father's pallor grow pale as she sits with her eyes closed. "I would've died right there next to Montgomery if not for Castle. And how did I thank him?" she asks, voice growing wild. "I didn't. Instead, I got shot," she says bluntly, feeling the phantom piercing of a bullet yet again.

"Katie, stop," Jim encourages, growing concerned by his daughter's despondency.

"I got shot and I used that as an excuse," Beckett continues, ignoring her father. "I ran and I hid. Just like I always do," she continues in a voice of self-loathing as she remembers Castle's accusation from that terrible day. "And because I did, Castle got hurt. And now he's changed," she rambles, haring too close to the edge of what she's decided not to share with her father. "He's doing something foolish and dangerous and he's going to get himself killed. All because I wasn't strong enough," she finishes miserably.

"Katie, don't do this," Jim urges, voice quivering again. "Don't torture yourself…"

Beckett flinches at Jim's unknowingly loaded word, the one that instantly conjures memories of Castle's shredded back and haunted recitation of what happened to him.

"I have to, dad," she replies. "I broke him. I took this beautiful, happy boy and I broke him. Cheating ex-wives, excoriating reviewers, a father who never even visited – none of them touched him. But then I came along…," she trails off, swiping at another tear. "I have to torture myself, dad, because no one else knows how this feels."

"You're wrong, Katie," Jim answers immediately, the sorrow in his voice collecting her attention. "I ran and I hid," he repeats her words, sounding haunted. "And because I did, my daughter got hurt. She changed," he continues after stopping to bolster his faltering composure. "She started doing something dangerous and she almost got herself killed. *I* almost got her killed, because I wasn't strong enough."

With each phrase he borrows, Beckett feels another part of her heart break. It's a terrible symmetry – Jim hiding in a bottle and leaving Kate to fend for herself, followed by Kate hiding in her mom's case and leaving Castle to fend for himself. And each situation created hideous, permanent scars and unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Beckett reaches for her father's hands again, desperate to connect. They share something horrible, but they also share hope. After all, Jim conquered his demons. It took years, but he fought his way back. Maybe she could do the same, she starts to think.

"I think you should see a counselor," Jim offers, breaking the fragile silence. "I know you won't want to, but I think it'll help. I think…"

"It's a good idea," Beckett interrupts, nearly smiling at her father's sigh of relief at her gentle response to his suggestion. "I had to see someone to get qualified to come back to the precinct. Maybe… maybe I should start seeing him again."

Jim nods, still a bit incredulous that his suggestion didn't cause an explosive reaction. "Maybe," he offers hesitantly, "I could help?"

"You already do, dad," Beckett replies, squeezing his hands. "But let me start on my own, okay? We can talk at our brunch meetings, but I think I've got some things to sort out."

Jim nods again but looks lighter. The waiter sees his opportunity to approach, their nearly untouched meals seeming to confirm his earlier thoughts. But he's mollified by the praise levied by both Becketts and the request take-out boxes. They wait quietly, using the time before their departure to think about what's been said tonight and what remains unspoken.

After a tearful farewell, they go to their separate homes, though Beckett – for the first time in many years – feels the pull to stay at her family home. She returns to her own apartment, though, with two missions in mind.

The first is simple. Without taking off her coat or storing her take-out, Beckett walks directly to her collection of material for her mother's case. There, pinned on top is the list she made at the precinct today. She pulls it free, taking it with her as she strides to her kitchen table. The list and the take-out box rest on the table, joined immediately by Castle's gift. The ribbon's looking a little worn, but that's because it's been in her pocket all day when not sitting in front of her. With everything going on, she's been unwilling to let the gift out of her reach.

Tossing her coat on the couch, Beckett sits after grabbing a fork and a pen. She uses the latter first, returning to her list to strike out her second option, "Take it back." That leaves only option 3 – "Let him lead." She stares at the words, wondering if she can do this. As she's struggling, though, she realizes something important, something she hadn't even noticed when she first made the list: letting him lead doesn't mean she can't help. She can run a parallel investigation, one that supplements rather than competes. She'll need to start it on the down low since he clearly doesn't trust her motives, she realizes with frustration, but perhaps she can make some ground on the investigation and offer it up to prove to him – prove to both of them – that they can do this together. After all, they both have something at stake.

She feels good about her decision even if she's wary about being able to control herself on the investigation. Perhaps her counselor can help, she thinks in a rare burst of optimism. Perhaps getting some clarity in this portion of her life can help her tackle the other rogue elements, too.

That briefest flicker of hope warms her more than she thought possible. Her summer was dark and nightmarish; her return to the precinct, which she'd hoped would help restore her, has instead held one nasty surprise after another. Now, finally, she feels the nearly forgotten ray of hope and shelters it protectively.

Smiling, she pops the lid off her dinner and takes a large bite. Chewing happily, she turns her thoughts to her second task: reaching out to Castle. He's given her the means and the method. She needs only to figure out the message.

A/N: Another early chapter, but one offered with an apology. I likely won't have time to write this week with several professional deadlines on Friday. And, being in DC, life is likely to be very chaotic on Friday! So, I might not get to writing or replying to reviews until next weekend, but I'll be anxious to get to what's coming (chapter seven or eight, haven't decided yet).