Chapter 8

Following his solitary dinner, Castle guessed he ought to check his phone, left in his bedroom to avoid pathetic constant staring at it, and found to his utter amazement a missed call from Beckett followed, some time later, by a text, sent only moments earlier. Back in Manhattan, indeed?

He was still confused by the constant missed calls from the unknown number, but they had tailed off that morning, stayed off all day, and remained off most of the evening, though there was one solitary entry. He ignored that.

Instead, he thought about Beckett's missed call (without message) and short text. He had somewhat of a dilemma. It wasn't what he'd wanted, which was talking. On the other hand, he hadn't heard her call, and it was possible, if unlikely, that the call had meant that she wanted to talk. And weighing the scales to that hopeful side, she had texted to tell him she was in Manhattan.

Castle considered the evidence and the likely story, and rapidly came up with the conclusion that Beckett had abandoned her father because she'd found evidence that he was drinking again. In which case… it was possible that all those missed calls were because Jim still had his, Castle's, number from that abortive, desperate plea for Castle to save Jim's Katie from herself and the rabbit hole of the case. He hadn't managed it then.

It was the last point he needed to call Beckett back – emphasis firmly on back, because she had called him first. It wasn't particularly late, for them. He tapped her number, and waited.

"Beck-uhhh-ett?" her voice slurred, interrupted by a yawn. "Castle?" The voice reached full wakefulness by the end of his name. "Why're you calling?"

"Uh… you called me. Texted. So I guessed you wanted to talk to me."

"Oh. I didn't expect you to call."

It was said with such matter-of-factness that it hit like a wrecking ball. "Why not? You expect me to ignore that you're back at home with a broken arm and no help?" She should have been right there where he could help.

"I've got help. Lanie. O'Leary. It's not up to you to criticise."

"It" – Castle looked at the rest of that sentence and snapped his mouth shut to rethink, very hastily, before the looming fight became real. "No. But I want to help. If you can make it to Manhattan from Roscoe on your own you can come up here, and I won't be tempted to swaddle you in cotton wool."

There was an odd silence. "You so would," Beckett said, much more lightly.

"Would not. Anyway, you like my cooking, and even if you can't swim it's warm." He stopped. "Hang on. Who's O'Leary?"

"Friend. Cop."

"How come I've never met him?"

"Different precinct."

Castle scrapped that line of discussion for pursuit in person, later. "Going back to the point, come up here. Much nicer than Manhattan in July. I could come down and fetch you" –

"No. I can get the train."

He clamped his lips firmly shut. No cotton wool, Castle. No swaddling. Except possibly into his arms.

"Okay," he reluctantly agreed. "Can you get a train tomorrow?"

"Guess so," Beckett decided. Truthfully, the thought of being out in the Hamptons and not in the thick humidity of the city was driving her decision. The thought of being with Castle was driving it faster. His concession that she would get the train had undoubtedly helped with that, because the more he had insisted on collecting her the less she would have agreed to go at all. "Do you need me to bring you supplies? Doughnuts?"

"No, but if there aren't sexy bikinis in your bag I'll be very disappointed."

Beckett made a disgusted noise, but his return to sexy-flirtatious was somehow reassuring. "Wait and see," she snipped.

"I intend to. See, that is," Castle oozed happily. "Text me the train time, okay? I'll pick you up at the station."

"Okay," she said agreeably. "Can I go to sleep now?"

"I could tell you a bedtime story."

"Not tonight."

"Aww. No fun."

"Nope. Night, Castle."

"Till tomorrow," he said automatically, and only realised that it was the literal truth after he ended the call.

Beckett turned over in bed, and floated into sleep without noticing, cushioned on Castle's easy familiarity and lack of over-protectiveness.

In the Hamptons, by contrast, Castle wasn't sleepy at all. Unfortunately, he also wasn't nearly as sanguine about life, the universe, and Beckett (who was, naturally, the centre of the current state of the universe) as normal. Specifically, he was very concerned about the unknown caller, whom he presently firmly believed to be Jim. He resolved that the next day he'd keep his phone close and answer if another call came.

Deep in Cherry Ridge Wild Forest, Jim was, again, staring at Katie's brief, devastating note, and the watch. He'd thought… he'd thought she'd never know. But she had found out, and had taken far swifter, wholly decisive action. The last time, she'd tried to drag him out of his spiral. This time – she hadn't. Simply left him to it, with the bald comment to call her once he got dry.

He blew his nose, and reached for the small glass beside him. His phone lay on the table, too. He kept dialling, but never pressed go, on Katie's number: she hadn't answered his first batch of calls. He had another option, but the calls weren't being answered, and he didn't – couldn't – leave a message. The last time he'd done that, it hadn't gone so good, either. All that had achieved was Katie getting shot. However, he had no other option. He didn't have any contact numbers for any of Katie's co-workers, so it was Rick or nothing.

He swallowed another sip, and savoured the taste, and another. It had only been a half-finger poured into the glass, and he could easily have another half-finger, and then stop.

He forgot that he'd had a nip or several that afternoon, and the evening before. Every time he'd looked at the note, in fact. She shouldn't have left him. If she'd been there, he'd have stopped. (But he hadn't. He'd started.) If she hadn't been shot and then fallen, lying crumpled just like Johanna had – dying just like Johanna had, except she lived as Johanna hadn't – he'd never have needed it.

The whiskey level fell and Jim's temper rose. It was Katie's fault for getting shot, for abandoning him without even talking to him, for running away. Gradually, his thoughts broadened. Rick wasn't innocent either. If he'd tried harder, Katie wouldn't have gone running after the case. If he'd treated Katie better, she'd have listened to him. He should have stopped her. He could have stopped her. All he'd had to do was not leave her alone.

The level in the glass refilled, and dropped.

Jim picked up his phone.

"Rick Castle. Is that" –

"Jim Beckett. Why didn't you keep my daughter safe? It's your fault she got shot and she's run out on me. You couldn't do the one thing you were asked to and everything since is down to you" –

"You're drunk," came coldly down the line. "So I'll excuse what you just said as being the whiskey."

Castle couldn't believe that Jim was blaming him, explicitly, for Beckett's shooting. His own guilt was quite sufficient: he didn't need Jim's alcohol-induced commentary. Unwarranted guilt ignited his anger.

"I'm not" –

"Liar." It was equally cold. "I don't owe you anything, unlike Beckett. No-one on God's earth could have stopped her – you didn't, did you? – short of physical force. If you're suggesting I should have assaulted her, then don't bother."

"She was shot!" It was ever so slightly slurred.

"I know." The words dropped heavier than cannon-shot. "I was there. I was there in the ambulance when she flat lined. Twice. I was there in the hospital same as you were. I know." Silence bit. "But I'm not the one who's drunk." Another suffocating silence. "I'm not the one she's walked away from." And again, silence. "I'm the one she's running to."

The line was still open. Castle could hear, very faintly, the sound of a glass being set on a surface.

"Go to rehab, Jim."

"Who do you think you are telling me what to do?"

"Or go to hell in your own way. I'd rather you went to rehab, because that way you'll see Beckett again. She hasn't told me you're drinking again, incidentally," he added casually. "She hasn't said anything about why she came back to the city."

"You don't know anything about it. You've got no right."

"No. I don't have any right. And nor do you. Goodnight, Jim."

Castle cut the call and breathed very slowly in and out, in and out, until he had dissipated his flaying fury at Jim attempting to blame him. And then he poured himself a Scotch, admired his own sense of dramatic irony, and downed it in one, after which he washed the glass up and went to bed. Sober.

Beckett didn't exactly wake early. In fact, she woke very much later than she had intended, and still had to pack. She assumed that the comfort of her own bed and linens, together with the release of the ever-present tensions of the cabin, had given her the mental space to sleep hard.

She unpacked her bag, which she hadn't done last night, considered her shorts and t-shirts, repacked them, added two bikinis and then, out of sheer mischief, the swimsuit she'd taken to LA which had had such an amazing effect, and then popped a skirt and pretty top in too, finally adding a sundress in case of evenings out. At no time did she consider whether she would actually be comfortable with the scarring and wounds they would reveal. She slipped on flat sandals (heels remained out of the question, although with the right encouragement she was pretty sure Castle would swoop her up and carry her if needs be), and then investigated the train times. There was one – damn. She'd missed that one, and would have to get the late afternoon one. Change trains, as well. She growled unhappily, cross with herself that she'd slept so long, and texted Castle. There around 6.50pm. Tx.

She wanted some lunch, but there was nothing edible that she could fix – she binned the contents of her fridge, which were feeding on each other – and in the end she simply heaved up her bag, caught a cab to Penn Station, and planted herself in a pizza place outside. She told herself firmly that she could manage to get herself through the station, as long as she left plenty of time.

As it happened, she ended up sitting in the station for longer than she would have liked, but finally the LIRR board told her the platform and she could get moving. Fortunately the change at Jamaica wasn't too tight. She read her book throughout the journey and tried very hard not to think about her father at all. She wasn't entirely successful.

Sitting for the best part of three hours didn't do anything for Beckett's wounds, especially coming on top of the cramped bus ride from Roscoe two days ago. She painfully creaked off the train, and there, right on the platform waiting for her, was Castle, face bright and delighted, eyes alight, in shorts (mmmm) and a t-shirt. He grabbed her bag, swung it out of her way, and, without apparent thought or pause, wrapped her into his arms.

To her total embarrassment, she burst into tears.

"Hey," he complained. "I'm not that bad." He abruptly became contrite. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No," she sniffled. "Sorry."

Castle took the path of least resistance and most sense and simply patted her back very gently for a minute or two while she regrouped, flattened against his shoulder with only the dark curls of her hair visible. He then tactfully ignored her brimming eyes and sniff, retook her bag, and towed her along with his free hand to his car.

"The Ferrari?" she squeaked.

"Sure. I've got a reputation to keep burnished." He opened the door for her. "Can you get in with one arm?"

She rolled her eyes. "Just watch me." She slid smoothly in, and with only a minimum of awkwardness did up the seatbelt one-handed.

"Very neat."

He put her bag by her feet and came round to take the driver's seat. "C'mon. Let's go home and have some dinner." He grinned evilly. "Pasta. You can eat it with one hand." Her eyes rolled, but her momentary misery had been removed.

Castle drove them smoothly along, turned down a small road, drove further… and just as Beckett was about to ask whether he'd found an undiscovered bridge to Ireland, turned in and pulled up.

Her jaw dropped open. "You live here?"

"No, I squat on the beach in a tent. Yes, I live here." He managed not to say and for the rest of the summer so do you.

She didn't say anything. Castle wandered round the car, suavely opened the door for her and took the bag out of the way. He didn't – quite – hover. He was, however, unobtrusively close. Beckett unpeeled herself and exited the Ferrari's low seat in good order, which was slightly disappointing as it meant he had no excuse to put his arm around her.

He didn't need an excuse to put his arm around her, he rapidly decided, and simply did so. She startled slightly, and for a moment he thought that she would move away from him.

She didn't. She didn't wriggle any closer, either, but simply not separating was a good start.

"Dinner," he said, and didn't add anything…difficult.

He steered her inside, and without allowing her to pause directed her to a room containing a wide bed, a wooden armoire, and a comfortable chair; with an en-suite bathroom off to one side. It didn't look as if it was occupied by anyone else. Her bag was laid down, and Castle smiled down at her.

"I'll give you a few minutes," he said. "When you're ready, come to the kitchen."

"Kitchen?"

"Where dinner will be." He looked at her properly. "Oh. That way," he gestured.

"Okay."

Castle, never one to stifle his impulses, took one long stride and collected Beckett back into his encircling arms. "There," he murmured into her hair. "Hugs make everything better. Food helps, too. Dinner as soon as you're ready."

He dropped his arms, which was surprisingly difficult, and padded off to prepare the pasta. Shortly before it was ready, he heard the soft click of her sandals.

"In here," he called. Beckett slipped round the door.

"That smells good," she ventured. There was a slight note of nervousness, on which Castle didn't remark.

"Dinner's outside. Could you take the salad out?" he asked.

Beckett considered the bowl, and then considered her cast. "Um… if I stick my arm out and you balance the bowl on the cast and I use my good hand to stabilise it…"

"Okay."

She re-angled her arm, letting the sling drift emptily, and Castle put the salad bowl on to the cast, not releasing it until Beckett had taken a firm grip of the edge. She walked out slowly, and decanted it on to the table, then returned.

"Anything else?"

"Bread. Wine's already there."

"Wine?"

"Thought it might be pleasant. Rosé. It's summer. There's soda, or water, if you prefer."

"Rosé sounds nice."

She collected the bread in the same way as the salad, and left it on the table.

"Sit down. I'll just bring the pasta."

Castle arrived bearing two plates of penne in a tomato and red pepper sauce. "Nothing that needs cut up or two hands," he smirked.

Quite unexpectedly, instead of a glare, eyeroll or attack upon his ear, she simply murmured "Thank you," took a slice of French bread, and began to eat.

"Wine?"

"Please." She didn't make a move to sip it, though. "It's nice out here."

Castle watched her carefully. She seemed tired, and her emotional collapse as soon as he'd met her wasn't precisely reassuring or normal. He'd let her eat her dinner, and then he'd provide some non-specific snuggling and quiet strength, and absolutely no cotton wool. Still, she was making a good enough meal, and drinking a few sips of wine, so he could be strong enough not to baby her.

There wasn't much talking over the meal.

"Let's clear up," Castle said, without saying sit there nicely and don't do anything while I take care of everything.

"Okay. If you balance things on the cast again, I can carry them." And she did, while Castle nearly killed himself not helping.

"Coffee," he said, once everything was in the dishwasher. Castle was surprisingly efficient, and had cleared up as he went along, precisely so that after dinner he wasn't messing around in the kitchen rather than snuggling Beckett in. "We can have that outside, too. Stargaze. Will you be warm enough or do you want a wrap? I've got a couple of lightweight ones."

"I'll be fine."

"Okay." He put the coffee pot on the tray with mugs and cream, and took the whole assemblage outside, Beckett padding after him.

"Huh?" she emitted, as he went past the table and round a corner. "Oh!"

"It's shielded from the wind, and even though you're not – most disappointingly, I might add – wearing a bikini, you can still look at the pool or the sea or the stars."

"And the fact that the only seating is a couch has nothing to do with your choice of areas?" she snarked.

"Nothing whatsoever," he smiled seraphically. "Come and get some coffee."

She sat down, not quite squished up against the cane arm of the couch. Castle sat down a carefully judged few inches away, and poured coffee. When she leaned forward to take the mug, she ended up a little closer: just enough for him to lay his arm unsubtly along the back of the couch and curl his fingers on to her shoulder. She felt slightly cold through the t-shirt, so he pressed a little. Abruptly she conceded, and wriggled closer, the cast and sling on the side furthest away from him. His arm slid round her, keeping her slender body close and warmed.

"Look," he enticed. "All the stars are out."

"Yes." She didn't say anything more. Castle cuddled gently, and relapsed into silence himself. Time passed, the coffee was drunk, and peaceful, silent togetherness fell around them.

"Dad's drinking again," Beckett said, into the still night. "That's why I came back." Castle didn't make a sound, but his fingers petted over her shoulder. "Whiskey. All over again, whiskey." Her voice was even: emotionless. "I can't do anything about it. I learnt that last time."

Still the ice in her voice held her words together. "He couldn't stand to see me die," drifted through the air. "He couldn't stand to see her die either, and it's just the same now. He can't deal with death. He can't get over it, and when I fell down the steps I think he thought I'd been shot again." Castle jerked, and stilled himself, tucking her a fraction closer, looking down on the bent head in the starlight.

"I can't fix him. All I can do" – self-contempt laced the chill clarity – "is leave. Run away, and leave him to it, till he fixes himself." She stopped.

"Hope that he'll fix himself. And that he'll still want to see me, after that."

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

To NYAZ (Guest) – ACOA is "Adult Children of Alcoholics".

Apologies I'm late. RL occasionally still gets in the way of the important things, like fanfic!