He had gotten there as fast as he could, as fast as physically, humanly possible. He'd been mad, angry, for a long time, but when your daughter asks for you, when your daughter needs you, no matter what, no matter how much, you find a way to get there. He was slightly out of breath when he finally went through the door's arc. The expression on her face when she turned around and their eyes met, had him realise he hadn't been quite fast enough.

The instant she saw him her eyes started to water. Maybe it was guilt, grief, love or something else entirely, but at that moment she needed her dad. She needed him close; she needed to know everything was going to be okay.

They shared a look for a moment, silently exchanging, both of them unsure of their next step.

Slowly getting up, her body shaking, she bit on her lower lip, "Daddy?"

Daddy.

He breathed in. She had so rarely called him dad-dy. It was so child-like, so unlike her, even when she had, in fact, been a child. The tone of her voice caused his heart to shatter as he was momentarily brought back to the day his 8 year old Katie had called out for him on the playground. Supressing the tears she had called for him, clinging to her arm, that had turned out to be broken after a nasty fall off the jungle gym.

Daddy.

It caused his lungs to contract. Every time she would utter the word, it would bring back the same feeling deep down in his loins. The woman in front of him was in pain, a different kind of pain, but pain nonetheless. He looked into her eyes and at that moment, she wasn't the image of the daring 8 year old far wiser than her years. His daughter looked like a little girl, needy and lost. The same eyes he had witnessed drain of their essence that faithful day in the hospital. His daughter was broken and he desperately needed her back. They needed Kate back.

"Katie," he sighed, relieved. She smiled as best she could at that moment and he pulled her into an embrace, his protective arms tight around her. He stayed like this, rocking her body back and forth, his shirt soaked from the tears trickling down from her face to his chest. He held on until she hiccupped a few times, her cheeks stained from the dried out streaks, the energy and tears drawn from her still frail body.

He kissed the crown of her hair, unwilling to let go of her. He hadn't realised until then, just how much he had wanted her to know, how much he thought this was going to help. He needed her. Marx had told him he had given her the book, she'd read the massage. He told him she remembered.

She did. Or maybe she didn't. She didn't know what to think. So much had been the makings of her imagination. Why should this be any different? There was so much uncertainty, so much unanswered questions. She needed to ask.

She trusted her dad; he'd tell her the truth. She just couldn't get herself to ask, "Is..." "I…" "Did…"

She exhaled slowly, looked into his eyes and stated, determined, "Dad, I need to know the truth."

She really did.

10 weeks ago

Vibrations. Jim was over the stove preparing diner. He was hearing vibrations. He was extremely concentrated in what he was doing, but something was bothering him. Buzzing. Vibrations. Suddenly, he snapped out of it. His cellphone was ringing, he had left it on vibrate. He stopped stirring and hurried to the coffee table in the living room.

He had expected work, and he really hadn't felt like pulling some overtime that night. When he picked up the phone, the confidential number staring at him on the screen had him intrigued.

"Hello?"

"May I speak to Mr. James Beckett please?"

"Yes, this is he."

"I am calling about your daughter, Katherine Beckett. She's presently under our care at Clairmont Hospital. She's been admitted about an hour ago. We need her next of kin. Could you come over please?"

"Thank you Miss, I'll be right there," he answered nonchalantly as he hung up.

He hadn't even asked the woman what had happened. He hadn't asked why she was there, but there was no need to, really. It was the drugs, it was always the drugs. Maybe, he just didn't want to know, didn't want to hear it again, that his daughter had a problem, that his daughter needed help, that she was an addict. He knew that already. He didn't need to hear it again.

These phone calls were becoming routine. A few times she'd had her stomach pumped, other times she'd manage to almost choke on her own puke, but nothing seemed to wake her up, nothing to scare her enough. She seemed resolved on killing herself, slowly, painfully.

He sighed, pinching his nose canal with his fingers falling back on the couch behind him. He wanted to stop caring, maybe it'd hurt less, but he couldn't. He'd care and worry even when she'd be 50. It's what fathers do.

She'd made it clear there was nothing he could do, nothing she'd let him to do, but it didn't matter. He loved her despite everything going on right now. It was the third time only this year, and despite his concerns, his pleading, crying, she would always end up checking out against medical opinion. And then, a couple of months later, they'd start the dance over again.

He had once admired her stubbornness, her drive, like him in so many ways, but doubled with the heroin and cocaine, the alcohol and the less than reliable men in her like, she was a danger.

And he hadn't seen her in months. He hadn't seen his baby girl in months…

He has no trouble zigzagging through the hallways to the waiting room of the ICU. Everything felt extremely familiar. He got to the nurse behind the desk, "James Beckett for Katherine Beckett. I was called twenty minutes ago."

The woman put her finger up, gesturing him he'd be with her in a minute, as she picked up the ringing phone. Jim turned around and leaned on the desk crossing his arms. He watched a man get up, a couple of seats away from him. The man looked so familiar. As the dark-haired stranger approached he was suddenly enlightened, hit by the fact he recognized the man. He had faced him so many times before. Smiling at him from the back-cover of the book jacket, every time he had watched his wife read. Richard Castle was waiting in the ICU and he was coming towards him.

"Mr. Beckett?" Rick asked.

Jim tried to mask his surprise. Richard Castle wanted to talk to him? And he knew his name?

"Yeah?" he asked, very intrigued and little skeptical.

"I'm Richard Castle, sir," the writer said as he extended his right hand in the older man's direction.

Jim uneasily replicated the handshake, unsure about the nature of this impromptu introduction.

"We were uptown at McNally Jackson when it started. I couldn't go in, but she was asking for you. She's-"

"Mr. Beckett?" asked the nurse behind him.

He didn't even hear her. He was still trying to understand what in the hell this man was talking about. Richard Castle definitely didn't fit the pattern. He wasn't someone Kate would usually be hanging out with. Yet again, all celebrities, at one point or another finish checked in, into a rehab center. So maybe he was.

"Excuse me. Mr. Beckett?" she asked again, a little louder clearly exasperated. She didn't like her job that was for sure. He heard her that time and turned towards the voice, the quizzical expression still painted on his face.

"Please follow me."

He nodded, quickly turning around after giving the famous writer a shy smile, glad the conversation was over. "Thank you, for bringing her here, Mr. Castle."

"Wait." Rick said as he tapped the man's shoulder. "Mr. Beckett. Could you give this to Kate please? Make sure she gets it?" he extended a hand holding a book, his book.

Silently, James nodded, grabbing the book and following the clearly impatient woman designated to lead him the way.

"I'll be right there," he heard the writer say from a couple feet behind him.

Jim stopped, turning his head towards him, "Go home, Mr. Castle. My daughter she's-"

"I'll wait."

He didn't have the energy to argue, so he nodded and left the writer there, standing, hands in his pockets, looking so out of place.

The short walk to her room was filled with questions. None of this made sense. They turned left. They would always turn right. The nurse stopped at a door and peaked in. Without a word, she gestured, he could go in.

He was usually briefed by a doctor before going in. He didn't like the idea of going in there unprepared for what he was about to see. He pondered for a second, hesitated to wait for a doctor he could talk to, but he didn't. He'd already seen it all anyways.

He looked at the novel in his hand and placed it under his arm. James slowly pushed the door and entered the room. It wasn't what he had expected. She looked better. Her hollow eyes looked fuller, same for her cheeks; she had put on some weight. It also looked like she had managed to take in a little bit of sun, the colors looked good on her.

She looked better, but she didn't look good. She was beautiful, she always was but she looked disheartened. She was snuggled up against the pillow, tears gushing down, her messy curls stuck to her sweaty forehead. She hadn't even acknowledged his presence.

"Hey, Katie," he gently said, sitting on the chair next to the bed.

"What happened this time?" he asked as his hand caressed her back, rubbing soothing circles.

She hiccupped, wiping tears away with her hand, finally looking up to him, "I fucked up," she choked out. "I tried dad. I really, really tried." The tears were pouring down again, "I didn't even know for so long. I didn't-"

"What?"

"I wanted to be better. I wanted to be better for him," she went as she shook her head.

"Kate, what happened?"

"I killed him. Daddy, I killed him. I killed my baby. I killed him."

"You WHAT?"

Nothing. Hugging the pillow, she was looking straight at him. She was looking but she didn't seem to see.

"Kate, what are you talking about?"

Nothing. There was no more liveliness in the hazel eyes he was staring in. She was gone.

"Kate!" He shook her, but she didn't react.

Where was that damn doctor? He ran for the door, "Help!"

Okay, maybe he had panicked just a little, this wasn't life or death, maybe screaming like there was a mass murderer in the room hadn't been necessary, but he need them to come. He needed someone to help her, fix her. He needed someone to tell him what in the hell was going on.

Now, he couldn't go back inside. The way she stared through him, with her lifeless eyes, he couldn't bear. He found a seat in the hallway and composed. When the person on the other end answered he couldn't hold it in any more, he cried. No, he sobbed. His daughter had had a baby. He hadn't even known she was pregnant. When finally he felt as though the tears had dried up he started, "Hey Steve, it's Kate. This is really bad. She really needs your help."

He was staring at the book nested on his lap. He was about to open it when a nurse comes to him, it wasn't the same as earlier, "Are you the father?"

"This is my daughter inside."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She smiles uneasily nodding her head, "I was just coming over to update Ms. Beckett."

"Good luck with that. The doctor's diagnostic is stress induced catatonic delirium." He answered helpless. "What is it?"

"The baby. There's still a chance he'll pull through, we're doing everything we can. He's relatively stable, considering hum… Everything."

I'm sorry, I really thought a lot more of you guys would figure it out. Hope it's somewhat clear now. The fact Castle and Beckett weren't drinking coffee should have rung a bell ;)

Had a hard time writing this one.

Next chapter puts 9 and 10 together (aka more Rick and Kate, maybe Jim and Rick, and why she thinks her baby's dead). I know, I'm writing in flashback world…

Thoughts? Comments? Complaints?