Path to Paradise
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Kate Beckett was catapulted from sleep to the shock of dark hours and the confusion of noise.
She rolled over to regain some orientation, but she recoiled in shock, her shirt damp from the soaked sheets. She had to struggle with blankets before she could sit upright, and she automatically flipped on the light.
She'd forgotten Castle was here. He groaned and turned away from the light, his back to her.
"Oh, God," she croaked, sleep-battered. She reached for his shoulder. "You're soaked in sweat, Castle."
He shouted, arm flinging outward, and she caught him by the elbow, brought his hand against her chest. He'd been asleep - nightmare? - and now he seemed to be coming back to her, waking again.
Castle cursed under his breath as his eyes opened to bright light, and she reached immediately to snap it off. The room plunged into darkness, and she was night blind, but Castle let out a breath of murmured gratitude.
"You were having a dream," she said, blinking rapidly to try to find him. She felt the bed shift and his hand untangled from hers. He was getting out of bed. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," he said roughly. His voice carried the hard edges of a nightmare. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"It's all right," she said.
He was sitting forward on the edge of the bed as if he had to gather his strength. Or his wits.
"Have you been having dreams every night?" He never stayed with her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept over at his place either; they tried not to do that. She tried not to do that. She tried to give him space, let him be wounded and uncomfortable in peace. It'd been her experience that concern was often overbearing. "Castle. Do you-?"
"Some nights, Kate," he said shortly, striding forward. Overbearing, like she'd thought. Only he was heading straight for-
"Castle," she bit out, too late a warning as he stumbled into the armoire. "We're at my place."
He grunted and shifted directions, heading for her bathroom. Not his bedroom, not his familiar surroundings. Nightmares came often in unknown beds.
While he went to the bathroom, she shifted to her own side and flipped back the covers, ran her hand over the mattress.
Soaked in sweat. There was an actual damp spot where his body had been, and his pillow was drenched. Nightmares and... withdrawal symptoms?
They had carefully not talked about it. She didn't know how to have that conversation with him, how to ask for details he didn't want to give. When had she ever had to work at getting Castle to talk? She wasn't well-versed in interrogating him; he always offered everything right up.
But did he really?
Honestly, she wasn't sure now if he did.
Kate slipped out of bed and stripped off the sheets, piling the covers on the floor as she worked quickly. She was wary of addictive behavior, entirely skittish after dealing with her father's alcoholism, and she didn't want her own issues to blow this out of proportion.
Prescription abuse was one thing, drug addiction was entirely another.
X
Kate sank to the arm of the chair and pressed her palms to her knees, breathing hard. Her therapist said nothing, as if he was giving her privacy for her little breakdown, but Beckett had long since resolved herself to having a witness to her brokenness.
Dr. Clark cleared his throat and rubbed two fingers at his eyebrow, his posture at ease, cognitive. He reminded her of the captain of a starship, complete control, never ruffled, forging ahead with his Prime Directive: thou shalt not interfere with a lesser species' emotional development. Hers, of course.
"Kate?" he queried, a calm assurance in her name that brought her head up. "Do you need me to go through the symptoms of drug addiction or do-"
"No," she cut him off. "No, I know."
"You know," he repeated. "But do you believe?" He had the tendency to rephrase her statements in ways that left her reeling. I never intended to say that.
"I trust him," she clipped. Voice hard.
"I didn't ask if you trusted him." A tint of interest, and he jotted a note down that had her bristling.
"I trust him," she hissed, jerking up from the arm of the chair to pace. "He's not addicted. He used up his prescription, and he's in chronic pain that won't-" She had to stop and swallow hard. "I just didn't know it was happening. He didn't tell me."
"And that bothers you."
"Yes, it bothers me."
"Did you tell him that?"
"No." She stopped before the window, glanced down to the street below. Shied away at the flare of sunlight on glass. She knew she was doing it, but she couldn't stop. "No, he already looked so miserable about it. I've added enough heartache."
"You?"
Beckett turned, surprised at first to hear the accusation in his voice. And then she recalled what she'd said, unthinkingly, and she sighed, rubbing a thumb at her sternum where her heart ached. Therapy. "Me, I - no, I know it's not my fault he was shot. I didn't pull the trigger."
"It will be the work of a lifetime if I convince you of that."
She allowed the wry amusement to slide across her lips, and she sank back down to the armchair. "He's not addicted, but he feels he's too close to the line." Her fingers picked at the weave of fabric. "He thinks... it could happen to him. I don't-" She turned her head, closing her eyes on the thought that had swum unbidden to her lips.
"Please finish your sentence, Kate."
Her lips twisted. "I don't think I can do it. With him. If he - falls over the line. I don't think I have it in me to save him."
"Because of your father."
She buried her face in her hands, hunched over her knees, trying to breathe.
"Kate-"
"No," she choked out. "No, don't." She fought for control, using the silence to count, focusing on the upward climb of numbers instead of the horror lurking in her thoughts.
When she finally had her breathing back, Beckett curled her hands into fists and lifted her head. Another slow breath and she could straighten up again.
Dr Clark sat waiting patiently, hands folded in his lap. He had not made notes this time. "You have a very interesting and tangled Messiah complex, Kate. It's quite a web. You saved your father's life. You and you alone. Single-handedly. Swooped in and forced a grown man who is also your parent to-"
"Alright," she gritted out, nostrils flaring.
Dr Clark lifted an eyebrow. "Please finish the thought, Kate."
She hated him sometimes. "Alright, I get it. I'm not - superman."
"And who has responsibility for his actions?"
"I'm only in control of me," she gave up.
"I see you've memorized my stock responses." Another lifted eyebrow and this time a quirk of his lips. "Should I have them copyrighted?"
"Then this would be even more expensive," she shot back.
He chuckled and leaned forward, an elbow on the arm of the chair, still entirely at ease. "Let's take your hypothetical out to its logical conclusion, shall we?"
"Can we not?" she muttered. He always did this, made her see her crazy. Which was probably the point.
"Rick refills his prescription and takes them like candy in an honest attempt to dull his chronic pain. What then, Kate?"
She clenched her jaw.
"What happens to Rick, to you, to your relationship? To his daughter and his mother?"
"I... don't know."
"Why don't you know? You seem to know what you can't do if it happens, so what is it that's happening?"
"He'd be - addicted. Like my dad, he would become a different person. He wouldn't be Castle, he won't be the man who... loves me."
"I see."
"Really?" she snapped. "Because I don't."
"Except I think you really do," Dr Clark said gently. "You spoke the words out loud, and now you're angry I've forced you into giving them a voice. Your deepest fears. He won't love you."
She gripped the arms of the chair and squirmed, avoiding his gaze. Watching the sky past the window.
"I don't suggest," Dr Clark said easily, "that you stay in a romantic relationship with a man sunk in addiction. But I don't believe that's what's going on here."
"He's not addicted," she muttered. She knew he wasn't that far gone. He had looked ashamed, miserable; he had looked like a man struggling. Her father had just looked gone. No longer with her. No longer caring about what happened to him, or to her.
"No, he's not addicted. And he does love you." Dr Clark gestured to the chair beside her. "He said it in this very room, sitting right beside you. But you don't need my reassurances."
I need his. She needed Castle. End of story.
"I should talk to him," she sighed, sinking back in the chair. "We need to talk."
When she opened her eyes, Dr Clark looked so very pleased.
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