Chapter 2

In the waiting area, Castle had taken out his notebook and pen, intending to occupy himself with character sketches of the more, um, interesting people in the ER, of which there were plenty. Unfortunately, his mind continued to hamster-wheel around Beckett's admission that she'd lied to him – okay, so she hadn't said so in plain words, but the only possible connotation of You knew? was that she had, and was appalled that he knew she had.

He couldn't say her reaction surprised him. Maybe he should have hinted that he'd always suspected, always wondered – after the swings, he'd have been much more surprised if she hadn't remembered, and there'd been tiny hints on her part that she was…looking for something, trying to see further into him. He'd…oh. He hadn't moved towards her: still hurt, still angry, still wishing futilely that she hadn't run off all summer and ignored him. He'd accepted her overtures, but he hadn't gone further than she had…and she'd…oh, again. He hadn't moved so she hadn't moved so he hadn't moved… Both of them stuck.

But now he knew the truth, and he was hurt and angry all over again.

In which case, he asked himself, why was he here at all? Why hadn't he taken the out she'd given him, and left as soon as the nurse had taken her into examination? Why couldn't he just let go?

For the same reason, that one, singular reason, that he'd never let go since the day he'd met her. He was so deeply in love that he couldn't do anything else.

He thought about that. Then he thought about Beckett, who also hadn't let go. He'd thought that she had – oh, so often: when he'd said It's about your mother and she'd turned away without a word – but she'd let him in again; when she'd dated Demming (but truthfully, only after he'd slept with Ellie Monroe) and ditched him just too late as he, Castle, had waltzed off with Gina; when she'd dated Josh because he'd been with Gina…

And when she'd run off for the whole of last summer and never uttered a word to any of them, of course. When she'd blanked the whole damn bunch of them, just as he'd thought she'd been telling him she wanted him. Thrown his love back in his face and run off to hide…

Just like she'd run off to hide on this case, every time…oh my God.

Every time the memories became overwhelming, but she wasn't remembering love. She was remembering being shot.

He'd never realised that till now. He'd never put it together, because he'd never seen it. Only now, when she'd had to deal with a sniper, with shootings…with death. She'd died, twice: flatlined – and she knew it.

Put it together, Rick. She'd run off to hide because she remembered dying. Whether she remembered – and she did – his desperate, impassioned appeals for her to live because he loved her; she remembered dying.

Well, fuck. There was a realisation he could have used much earlier. Even so, he thought irritably, even so, she could have explained.

Explained her weakness? Beckett? Yeah, right. About the same time as the moon turned into green cheese. She'd run from any hint of her own weakness every time. Every. Single. Time.

Gradually, a tiny tendril of comprehension curled into his anger. Was it possible that Beckett had run from him because he was her weakness? Or…that she didn't want him to see her weakness in case…in case he'd reject her for it, since his Nikki was never weak.

Oh, fuck. There was a swamp that would need to be drained.

He slumped back in the hard plastic chair, and faced up to the atrocious mess that Beckett's shooting had left behind.

Beckett finally eased as the anaesthetic took away the pain from her arm.

"Okay," the doctor said. "Can you feel this?" He tapped beside the cut.

"No."

"Good." He began to clean away the half-set scab and the fluid, and tutted. "Yep. Definitely infected. We're going to clean this out, properly, and then I'll decide if it needs stitched or glued."

Beckett looked away from the doctor's ministrations, which took considerably longer than she'd expected or hoped. On the other hand, it gave Castle plenty of time to leave and be well clear of the hospital and her. She blinked hard, and stared out of the window. By the time the doctor released her arm, she had her tear ducts under control.

"Stitches for you," the doctor said cheerfully. Beckett didn't think cheer was appropriate. "I've cleaned it out, but you'll need to take antibiotics for a few days to clear the infection completely. Now, put your arm on the rest here, and if you're squeamish, don't look till I tell you I'm done."

Beckett looked away again. She wasn't squeamish – usually – but she didn't see the need to watch the stitches being set into her flesh. Some moments later, the doctor finished.

"Right. That's all tidy. I'll put a dressing and a bandage on, and then look at your knees. Before you go, the nurse will give you a care schedule to clean and re-dress your arm."

"Thanks."

"Let's take a look at your knees, too." He regarded her sympathetically. "Can you stand? If so, please would you take off your pants?"

"I can stand."

"Okay."

The doctor stepped away and pulled the curtain around the bed, so that Beckett could remove her pants in privacy. Since she'd been sitting in her bra, she felt that the doctor's pulling the curtain was a touch unnecessary.

"I'm done," she said.

The doctor scanned her face. "How much did that hurt?" he asked, noting her extreme pallor and the pain lines across her forehead.

"Uh…"

"A lot, then."

Beckett nodded, defeated. "Yeah."

"How did you do it?"

"Same as the arm. Broke a glass, cut myself."

"It must have shattered," the doctor said, examining her knees. "It looks like there are some tiny fragments in here still."

"I washed them," Beckett defended.

"Washing isn't enough." The doctor grinned, which Beckett didn't appreciate. "You're in for another dose of anaesthetic, so I can clean them out. These won't need stitches, though. I expect you've had enough stitches for one day."

Beckett had had quite enough of stitches for one lifetime, never mind one day. She gave herself up to another round of needles and another session of determinedly not looking at the doctor's actions.

Outside, Castle was extracted from his miserable thoughts by a perky, bright-eyed nurse.

"You came in with Miss Beckett?"

"Yeah."

"Uh, she won't be able to put that shirt back on till it's been thoroughly cleaned. Can you get her something to wear to go home in?"

Castle stared.

"You're her partner, aren't you?" the nurse asked sympathetically. "Can't you get her something to wear? She'll feel much better if she has a clean shirt."

"I guess," Castle said slowly, wondering frantically how he could find a shirt for Beckett. The nurse bustled off. Castle opened his phone and started to search for anywhere within a few minutes' walk that would sell him a shirt for Beckett. Luckily, there turned out to be a store nearby. He located the nurse, told her that he was going to get a shirt, and not to let Miss (he stumbled on the word) Beckett out of the hospital until he returned, no matter how much she argued, and hastened out to the store.

Twenty minutes later he reappeared, bearing a plain pale blue shirt of no particular stylishness – it wasn't even pure cotton – but which, crucially, had buttons. He didn't think that Beckett would be able to raise her arm, given her earlier state, and anyway the less she had to move the better. The rest of the day would be awful enough without adding unnecessary pain.

"All cleaned up. You've messed them up a bit, so try not to move too much. You'll need to protect that arm – I'll give you a sling. Use it for a couple of days, just so you're not tempted to use the arm till everything's settled down." He tapped at his computer, and pulled paper from the printer. "Here's a script for the antibiotics. Get it made up at the hospital pharmacy before you leave. The nurse says your partner's here with you, so let them deal with it while you stay sitting down and resting. Cleaning out your arm isn't the most fun thing in the world, and you need to let everything settle down and rest. I don't recommend you go to work tomorrow."

Beckett didn't bother saying that she wasn't allowed to go to work anyway; merely nodding compliantly as the doctor produced a sling and fitted it, which was uncomfortable. She guessed that the anaesthetic was beginning to wear off. "Can I take pain relief if I need it?" she asked. "It won't interfere with the antibiotics?"

"Should be fine."

"Thanks."

The doctor smiled at her. "You'll be fine too. Just don't do anything to tear the stitches, and rest those knees for a day or two as well, as much as you can. Now, let's find your partner. Hopefully he'll have found a shirt for you. The nurse will go check."

Beckett, tempted though she was, didn't say he's not my partner and he probably left three seconds after I was brought in here. The doctor, happy illusions unshattered, left, as Beckett looked at her knees, the light, thin bandage over them, and awkwardly put her pants on, one-handed. By the time she'd done that, her knees were also beginning to hurt, and her arm ached. She thought dispiritedly that matters could only get worse.

Shortly, the nurse reappeared. "Here's a clean shirt for you. I'll help you put it on." She spotted the prescription. "Oh, let me take this out to your partner so he can get it filled while we get you dressed." She'd disappeared again before Beckett could react. Castle was still here? She hadn't unboggled her brain before the nurse returned.

"Where did the shirt come from?" Beckett asked.

"Oh, honey, your partner rushed off to the store down the road and got it." The nurse sighed. "You got a good one there." Her eyes turned dreamy. "And so handsome. You're really lucky."

Beckett didn't comment. She would have been really lucky – if she wasn't a mess of post-shooting trauma, now with added flashbacks, injuries, nightmares, and, of course, a caught-out liar. She looked pathetically at the nurse. "Do I need to stay in here once I'm dressed?"

"No, I'll take you somewhere you can sit comfortably while you wait. I'll tell your partner where you are."

"Thank you," Beckett managed, wondering if she could sneak off to catch a taxi without the nurse or Castle noticing, and then realising that she had to retrieve the antibiotics, which Castle would have. She obediently followed the nurse to a relatively comfortable chair, and sat quietly, wishing that she could go home. Her own home, with her own bed.

Then she remembered that her own apartment was presently a mess: broken glass still on the floor, no doubt the smell of spilt alcohol permeating the atmosphere, her bed unmade, dirty washing in the corner of her bedroom. A mess for a mess, she supposed bitterly. It suited her current situation perfectly. She'd ask Castle to take her home.

"I'm just going to help Miss Beckett with that shirt you brought her," said the chirpy nurse, "but the doctor's dressed her knees as well as her arm and told her not to walk more than absolutely necessary, so would you mind filling her prescription for antibiotics?"

"She asked me to?"

The nurse shook her head. "Oh, no. She hasn't asked for anything, but she's likely too worried about the stitches in her arm and the sling to think straight."

"Oh," Castle said, rather flatly. "Yes. Have you got it there?"

"Sure I do. Thanks." She handed it over, and Castle made his way, not without a certain amount of mistaken corridors, to the pharmacy. The prescription was swiftly filled, somewhat to his surprise. He'd expected a hospital pharmacy to be much busier, and consequently slower, than a local Walgreens. Instead, it was much quicker. He took the antibiotics and the instructions, and went to find Beckett. He was going to take her back to the loft, and they were going to talk. There would be no more lies. No more concealment. For either of them.

He stalked back from the pharmacy, determined that this time he'd have the courage of his convictions as he hadn't had before Montgomery's funeral; this time he'd demand and receive answers, as she hadn't answered on the swings.

"I have your antibiotics," he said without preamble.

"Thank you." She didn't look up.

"We're going back to mine."

"I…I thought you'd just take me home." She was still looking at her feet. "You'll only have to take me home anyway."

"You're staying at mine," Castle decreed. "You can't look after yourself with one arm in a sling and when you're not to walk much and I told you we were going to talk. So you're staying at mine and we are going to talk!"

Beckett said nothing. Castle's over-stressed temper barely held. "We're going home." A passing orderly was asked – politely, with an edge of don't try me because I'm right on the verge of explosion – to arrange discharge, and shortly Beckett was wheeled out of the hospital door and placed in the passenger seat of her car. She hadn't said a single further word to Castle, and only mumbled a thank you to the orderly, since Castle had informed her she was staying with him. He closed her door with a decided snap, and came around to take the driver's seat and start the engine.

About three hundred yards out of the hospital, Castle realised that they had to go to Beckett's apartment at some point, because if she was staying at his – and she was going to stay at his if he had to handcuff her to the couch to ensure she stayed – she would need clean clothes and her toiletries. He turned the car in the correct direction, and after twenty-some minutes of sickening silence, pulled up at Beckett's block.

"You'll need clothes and your products," he said. "We'll go up and you can tell me what to pack."

"I'm not packing anything because I'm not staying anywhere else."

"You are staying at mine where I can make sure you aren't doing anything dumb like incubating gangrene in your arm." Castle's voice was dead level. "I'm not watching you kill yourself for your own stupid pride. You are going to accept the help you need and you are going to get better and we are going to fix this once and for all. Starting right now with you packing what you need for at least a week."

Beckett didn't say a word. On the point of full explosion, Castle glanced across at her and saw her teeth in her lip and her eyes overflowing: silently, without the slightest hint that she'd evidently been weeping for more than the duration of his impassioned, infuriated rant. His heart, never proof against Beckett, softened from its previous fury.

"Come on," he coaxed. "We can fix this." He unclipped her seatbelt, and came around to the passenger side. "Out you get. I'll balance you." His hands gripped her waist, firm without discomfort, and he eased her out of the car, supporting the majority of her weight as her face twisted in pain. "Can you walk?" He considered. "Or shuffle, at least?" She didn't move. Castle simply hugged her into his wide shoulder, patting her gently and avoiding putting any pressure on the arm in its sling. "Up you come." He changed his grasp again, and half-lifted her so that her toes were barely on the ground and all of her weight was supported while it still looked as if she were walking. "Keys?" he asked.

"Pocket," she whispered.

That would be the pocket on her right, which she couldn't reach with her arm in the sling, Castle rapidly worked out. He slipped his hand in, located the keys, and opened the door to her block, then kept them in his hand while he propped Beckett up on the way to the elevator, and then until he could open her door and -

What the hell? It was chaos. The stagnant air reeked of stale alcohol, there was smashed glass on the floor by the window; dirty dishes sat by the sink, starting to grow something that belonged in a Petri dish. He looked further, and didn't see any improvement. He steered well clear of all of it, and directed Beckett towards her bedroom, which was a mess as well, as he swiftly discovered. He lowered her to sitting, safely on her bed.

"Stay there," he said, "and tell me where your suitcase is."

"I don't" – Castle fixed her with a look, and she stopped, curled around her arm, and then lay down on the bed and curled away from him, protecting her arm all the way.

She couldn't deal with him. The anaesthetic had been wearing off all the way home, and now she couldn't bear another minute of anything. She wanted to sleep: to forget the day and forget her pain and forget everything. Slow, thick tears leaked down her cheeks; silent, but no less emotionally agonising than her arm or knees. "Go home," she tried, but she didn't expect it to work, any more than any other try had worked so far. She relapsed into herself again, back to Castle, and pulled herself into her own dark little world.

Castle looked at Beckett's crumpled, unresponsive form, and decided that he'd simply force the issue. He searched for a few seconds, and discovered a hold-all; investigated closet and drawers for rather longer, and packed a week's worth of easy-to-put-on clothes, trying not to stare at the underwear and mostly succeeding. That done, he left the hold-all in the bedroom to collect some toiletries.

The bathroom, unlike the rest of the apartment, was clean and relatively tidy. Therefore, Castle had a perfectly clear view of a half-empty bottle of Nytol beside the sink, with a full bottle, when he checked, in the medicine cabinet above. He didn't find either reassuring, as he mechanically packed up shampoo and conditioner, skin products and, for good measure, her body and facial wash.

When he came back out to put everything in the hold-all, Beckett hadn't moved an inch. He regarded her hunched, huddled form, and turned away, back to the main room.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests whom I can't thank directly.

I have a request. If anyone has any recommendations for things to do/see in Nashville, Tennessee - excluding the Grand Ole Opry, because I've already booked that - I would be very grateful for suggestions. Thank you.