Chapter 17

Castle made himself a coffee, sipped the last of his wine and then chased it with the coffee, and sat out under the stars. On balance, he didn't think it could have been a much better day. Okay, it hadn't started well, and the middle had been pretty awful except for O'Leary, with whom he intended to cultivate a much better acquaintance in due time, but set against that, and outweighing all of it by a factor of at least a googleplex – Beckett had said she loved him. Said it, and not been dying in the process; said it, and not instantly fled.

Even more importantly, she'd let him say it, and not only not fled, but leaned on him, and let him comfort her. For independent, walled in Beckett, that said more than words ever could, and all of it the story he'd long wanted to hear.

He contemplated the stars and the moonlight, perfectly content with the end of the day, but wishing he had his Beckett nestled beside him, cuddled in the crook of his arm with her head on his shoulder and in a beautifully kissable position, should they have wished to kiss. (And how likely was it that they wouldn't?, he asked himself rhetorically.) Since she wasn't there, he betook himself inside, and, not inspired to write, padded off to his bedroom. He bypassed his bed in favour of his bathroom, undertook his bedtime routine, and considered whether he should sneak into Beckett's room to make sure that she was okay. And maybe bring her back into his bed... if he could, if she would...

He moved past his bed towards the door, idly noting that there was a lump on the side.

Hang on. He'd made his bed this morning. There hadn't been any lumps. He sidled up to the lump and found some very familiar dark curls spread across the pillows. His heart soared.

He slid into bed, turned over, and laid a hand gently on Beckett's waist, finding soft cotton and the tiny rise and fall of sleeping breaths. He was asleep in instants, buoyed up on happiness.

On waking, Castle found that he appeared to have been embraced by a cherry scented blanket. As his brain attained first gear, he realised that it was because Beckett had turned into him in her sleep and was curled up with her head on his chest and her arm around him. She was breathing out tiny little whiffling sighs, and was obviously deep in slumber. Castle grinned very happily to himself, and enjoyed the sensation.

Unfortunately, he did need to get out of bed. Otherwise he'd be getting up in a very different way, and since he had been the one to stop them on the grounds that Beckett wasn't healed yet, that would be... dumb. He told himself sternly to be happy that she'd slept beside him all night by her own volition, and exited his bed, taking considerable care not to disturb her.

Some time after Castle had made – and eaten – pancakes with crispy bacon and was sitting enjoying the morning sun with his second cup of coffee, idly scrolling through the on line news and contemplating starting to write, Beckett yawned her way outside and flopped down beside him.

"Morning," he smiled. "Breakfast?"

"Please."

The single word appeared to be the limit of Beckett's available brain functions. Castle put coffee in front of her, which she fell upon like a dying man finding an oasis in the Sahara, and padded off to make more pancakes and bacon, which, when they arrived, she also fell upon. Castle nibbled at a stray pancake which had escaped the Beckett maw, and watched fondly – which he concealed, not wishing to spoil the moment by being mauled.

Her apparent starvation remedied, Beckett regarded Castle, a touch uncertainly, her hands knotted round her cup, which he dealt with by curving his hands around hers in a gesture that made it completely clear that he was there for her, and very happy with her being there too.

"What would you like to do today?" he asked. "We can stay here and enjoy the sun, we could go into town if you want to, or anything really."

"Can we just stay here?"

"Sure. Sun loungers by the pool?"

Beckett smiled at him, suddenly open, relaxed and beautiful. "Yeah. If you'll put sun cream on my back."

Castle swore he could feel his eyes light up. "If you'll do mine."

"Okay."

The day passed in peaceful togetherness: Beckett read (though Castle thought that she also slept, because the pages weren't obviously being turned), Castle wrote; they both made a good lunch and lamented O'Leary's depredations and consequent lack of cinnamon buns; and though Castle swam, Beckett merely floated around the pool whenever she felt too hot.

The one thing they didn't do, apart from when reapplying sun cream, was touch. In Castle's case, it was because he knew that if he started kissing Beckett, healed or not healed she'd respond, and he was still clinging desperately to his good-guy status. Being a good guy might be the right thing to do, but it sucked. In Beckett's case, it was because she knew that if she started kissing Castle at this stage then she wouldn't stop, and while she was still considerably below full fitness she'd rather not incite affairs on a sun lounger or indeed in the pool.

Even if there weren't touches, however, there was plenty of sneaky and overt ogling and leering. By dinner time, the atmosphere between them was crackling.

"Coffee by the pool?"

"Sounds great," Beckett agreed.

Coffee by the pool also meant nestling into Castle's excellently comfortable arm and chest, where Beckett fitted very neatly. She laid her head on his shoulder and looked up at the same stars as on earlier nights. Tonight, though, they didn't seem as remote or as uncaring, twinkling cheerfully down at them.

"It's beautiful out here," she said quietly. "So peaceful."

"I come up if I need space to think," Castle admitted. "Something about the sky helps to clear my head."

She snuggled closer. "I don't want to think. If I do, I'll think about Dad..."

"Don't do that," Castle said hurriedly. "Think about me. That's a much better idea. In fact, don't think about me."

"Huh?"

"Do this, instead," and he leaned down to kiss her, gently turning her in and gathering her into his lap. He lifted for an instant. "Much better than thinking." His mouth met hers again, and there was certainly not much thought involved in the following moments. He was teasing and gentle, no demands or forcefulness; his hands held her close, tucked in: soft kisses in the softly starlight night, followed by careful, sensitive exploration of each other: nothing too inflammatory, nothing that might suddenly explode: both all too aware that it would be far too easy for everything to blaze, with no care for injury or unhealed scars.

"We should stop," Castle gasped.

"Yeah..." but she didn't stop, nibbling naughtily on his neck and nipping his ear.

"I'm not usually one to recommend restraint..."

Beckett spluttered with laughter. "Restraint? You? Mr Nothing Succeeds Like Excess?"

"Family trait," Castle grinned back. "But we need to stop this, because..."

"Mmm?"

"Because you're going to hurt yourself. Or I'll hurt you, and I can't deal with either one."

She made a reluctant, disappointed, but ultimately accepting noise. "Yeah. I... one of us being upset is enough."

Castle cuddled her comfortingly. "You don't need to be upset."

"Not with you," she mumbled. "But I can't forget about Dad." She curled in, shrinking and tense. He didn't say anything, but petted. "I hate not being able to do anything."

"Control-freak," Castle teased affectionately. Beckett growled, but didn't pull away. "I know," he soothed. "You want to fix it and you can't."

"He got arrested. He used to get picked up..." She broke off.

"Look, if it makes you happier you could check with the local cops that he was okay when they let him out."

"I don't want them calling me. You heard them. Guilt-tripping me about picking him up."

Castle paused for a second. "Um..."

"Yeah?"

"I could call. Um... no."

"What?"

"I... no."

"What, Castle?" Beckett clipped, very much her old self. "You're not normally shy about crazy theories."

"Um... I could pretend to be his son-in-law?"

"You what now?" She stared at him. Even in the gloom he could see her eyes very wide. "Why would you call anyway? They'll only try to guilt-trip you too." She gulped. "I don't want you dragged into this mess. Why do you think I didn't tell you about it when I was upstate? I didn't want you involved because it just never ends. One damn thing after another, my family." She dragged in breath. "I just wanted one freaking thing that didn't get spoilt by my issues."

"I won't do it if you don't want me to."

"I don't. I don't want you..." she searched for a word... "tainted. We're poison. Everything we touch gets fucked up. I didn't want you involved," she ended on a desperate note.

Castle remembered exceedingly and painfully clearly what had happened the last time Beckett had told him not to involve himself and he'd ignored her. That summer had been agonising.

"I won't call, then. Not unless you ask me to."

"I just want you to be somewhere I can... be safe. Be happy."

"I want to make you happy. And you make me happy. So let's not spoil it. I won't do anything about your dad unless you ask me to do something. No surprises."

She softened into him, and relaxed. "Thanks." It was followed by a jaw-breaking yawn. "I better get some sleep."

"Okay."

Castle rose from the couch and pulled Beckett up and into his arm. "I'll walk you home," he smiled. "Wouldn't want you to get lost, or go in the wrong door."

She managed a feeble smile. "Which is the wrong door?"

"The one that doesn't have me behind it," Castle said happily. "Feel free to take advantage of my enormous..." – he paused significantly, and she spluttered – "...bed. And anything else you might find in my bedroom or bed, of course."

"I will."

Castle's grin lit the kitchen as they entered.

"Your pillows are wonderful."

He choked. "Mean."

"You're the one who keeps stopping."

"You know why. And for the record, Detective Beckett, I don't want to stop."

Beckett considered a flip response, and decided against it – well, for the first sentence. "I know, and I guess I respect that," she said, and then smirked. "Your claim not to want to stop is definitely on the large side."

There was a chortle from beside her, and then she was neatly spun around and kissed, which finished what the flirting had begun: cheering her up.

"Now, off you go and get ready for bed," Castle suggested, "and then there's a nice large space in my bed into which you'll fit perfectly."

Beckett declined, not without some difficulty, the open doorway to a vast number of salacious comments about where Castle might fit perfectly, and retreated from temptation to prepare for sleep. The thought of being curled into Castle's undemanding size and warm strength, surrounded by his presence, eased her immensely. She tucked herself in, and just like the previous night was asleep in seconds; before Castle slid into his preferred side and collected her sleeping hand. She didn't so much as twitch.

Jim woke, still feeling rough, taking several moments to understand where he was – and why. Then it all came back to him: the bored contempt in the face of the cop, looking at just another drunk; the gaping absence where knowledge of the night before the one just passed should have been; the throwaway line she didn't want to know; and there he was, lying in the bed of a cheap motel because he hadn't been fit to drive.

At least, he thought bitterly, he'd realised that before the cop had to tell him. Or didn't tell him, and improved his arrest stats.

He sat on the bed, staring out the window at the river and a few early-bird fishermen. He guessed he'd better check out, go home to the cabin... but then what?

Then, he thought acidly, he'd prove to Katie and Rick Castle that he could fix himself without them. They wouldn't help him: indeed, Katie had just run off and left him to it. He'd show them.

He checked out, and drove very sedately back to the cabin, obsessively checking his mirrors for the cops, which didn't soothe his resentment one bit.

When he entered, the cabin was chill and empty. Katie's note was still on the table: his watch was still on top of it. Resentment flared again. He walked over to the table, picked up the bottle, and poured the remains down the sink. Then he washed it out, and rinsed it again, so that no trace was left. He could do this. He could. He went out to the outbuilding and ensured that there was nothing in his fishing bag but fishing kit. No bottles, nothing that could be... difficult.

And then he came back inside, looked at Katie's note – and then tried not to weep.

Reading her few, clear words brought back every memory of the first time she had left him to it. She'd tried to help him then...and it hadn't worked. Tried, and tried, everything she could think of. None of it had worked...until she had simply walked out. Only then had he realised that he was losing everything. Only then had he checked himself into rehab, taken leave of absence – maybe only a few weeks ahead of it being suggested that he absent himself permanently, but they'd supported him: more, perhaps, than he'd merited – from his firm, turned his own fierce dedication and will on stepping back from the edge.

And he had won. Stepped back, stopped drinking, gone to AA every morning for years, and until this summer, when he'd been at the hospital, gone at least twice a week, re-established relations with Katie.

And then he had thrown it all away. Resentment began to fade, washed away in the not-quite falling tears.

But it wasn't your fault, a little voice whispered. If Katie hadn't been shot, if she hadn't slipped on the steps...

No. It was his fault. He chose to drink. He chose to blot out the awful sight of his daughter, white and still and corpse-like in an ICU bed. He chose to blot out the equally horrible sight of her crumpled on the ground and her scream as she fell, haunting his nightmares where he went to her to find her...gone.

He chose it.

Now, he had to choose whether to do without it.

But, whispered the poisonous voice, Katie doesn't need you. Katie ran straight to Rick Castle. Katie didn't tell Rick why she left, a voice of reason tried to say. The venomous voice came again: Katie's got Rick Castle, and he wasn't... sympathetic. Just like he couldn't save Katie, he wouldn't help you. Reason tried again. No-one could have stopped Katie. No-one ever could. And Jim had seen Rick Castle in the hospital, looking...

Looking like Jim had done right after Johanna had been killed. Jim knew that he cared for Katie. That had been why he, Jim, had gone to him in the first place. He cared... just as much as Jim had. Resentment sputtered and died.

But he tried to tell you what to do. That's disrespectful.

He'd tried to guilt-trip the man.

A drink would solve the issue. You'd be yourself again. A little nip would clear it all up.

A little nip would kill him. Slowly, perhaps, but it would kill him. Look how quickly it had all fallen apart. Katie hadn't waited to watch him drown: she'd put him fair and square on the spot. Drink, and she had left. Sober up... and then she'd return.

Or not. She's got Rick Castle.

And he'd had Johanna, but he'd still talked to his parents. Finding the love of your life didn't mean that you forsook all others – he'd never quite understood the wording for that part of the service. Of course, it meant you didn't go catting around, not that you ignored everyone you used to know.

Surely Rick would never stop Katie from seeing him. He could do. No. Katie had never put up with being told what to do. Sometimes, she'd accepted a rational argument. Taking orders... not so much.

Which memory led Jim straight to the next agonising truth. If he never saw Katie again, that would be because she didn't want to see him. Not because anyone else didn't want her to see him, or told her not to see him... Because she would choose for herself never to see him again. I'd rather you went to rehab, because that way you'll see Beckett again. Rick had said that.

Rick wouldn't stand in Katie's way. Rick wouldn't stand in Jim's way.

Only Jim stood in Jim's way, and only his alcoholism stood between himself and Katie.

He realised that he was weeping: slow, painful tears, dropping on the watch he'd given Katie. She'd worn it every single day... until he'd failed her.

All over again.

Slowly, heavily: the weight of his failure dragging at his heels, he drank some water, and sat out on the porch seat until the dark night closed in. Even then he sat for a while, until the mosquitoes drove him inside, and shame pursued him into sleep.

When he awoke, he knew what he had to do. He packed up his possessions, not forgetting both his watch and Katie's note, locked up the cabin, and drove back to Manhattan. Once there, he forced down his pride, and began.

"Ed, it's Jim. I need your help. Can I come see you? Now?"

And then he tapped out a text.

Katie, I'm trying again. I'm sorry. Don't give up on me. Dad.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.