Chapter 7

"Now do you believe me?" Castle said, in a rigidly controlled voice that nevertheless conveyed utter fury.

Beckett stared at the readout. It had to be wrong. It had to be. A few days of missed meals didn't do that. She'd eaten before this week. Had you?, said a nasty little voice. How many meals did you miss after your dad went home from the cabin? How many haven't you bothered with because you're exhausted from trying to hold yourself together on the job? How many have you missed because your stomach is full of guilt at lying?

She stared at the readout again. It couldn't be right. There was no way she could be fifteen pounds underweight without noticing.

Sure you could. You haven't paid any attention to your health for the last five months.

Finally, she stepped off the scales and walked out, completely ignoring Castle. After a dumbfounded moment, he followed her, and found her curled up on the couch once more. Her head was bent, and though she was utterly still and silent, he was quite certain she was crying. Yet again, his disobedient heart over-rode his anger, and yet again he pulled her into his lap and into him, petting softly. She slumped.

"You have to eat," he soothed. "You can't do your job if you don't eat, and then what'll you do? You'll have to stay here and do nothing, and you'll go crazy in a week." He didn't say – you're an idiot and you have to eat or you'll really be ill, and then what'll you do when Gates benches you for much longer? Beckett didn't say or do anything. She simply stayed snuggled into him, where he could hold her close and not be killed for doing it.

Beckett, still horrified by how much thinner she was without noticing, had similarly not noticed that she was now surrounded by Castle's broad, muscular body, until he spoke. She knew she should eat, she simply didn't want to. She wanted to sleep. "I'm really not hungry," she said miserably. "I can't face it."

"Some soup, and a single slice of bread to dunk in it," Castle insisted. "You'll feel better if you have something."

It was, as usual with Castle, easier to agree than keep arguing. He was far too keen on insisting that she did things she didn't want to do, like eat, or stay at his loft, or let him fix her dressings, or take the antibiotics. Things that she ought to do for herself, but hadn't been, she thought, and didn't like the thought one bit.

"Okay," she acquiesced, and tried to get up. Getting up didn't seem to be happening. Castle had her all wrapped up, and moving wasn't possible.

"But before you have dinner…" Castle trailed, tipped her chin up with one large finger, and planted a delicate, butterfly kiss squarely on her lips. "There," he said happily. "Now I'm happy too."

"Too?"

"Well, you're pretty happy to be cuddled in. I said you were cuddly when you're sleepy and now I've proved it."

"I…You…That's" –

"True," Castle stated. "You're cuddly."

"But…but you've been angry with me since Gates benched me."

"Yes, but it doesn't mean I don't want to cuddle you. You're angry with me lots of the time but it doesn't stop you wanting to kiss me," he added smugly.

"You what now?"

"You want to kiss me. You kissed me in that back alley." He smiled evilly. "I approve. You should kiss me more often."

Beckett practically fell off his knee in her hurry to stand up.

"Soup time," Castle chirped. She flounced to the table, in case Castle tried to prove the kissing point.

"Isn't this the best chicken soup you've ever tasted?"

Beckett, forcing herself to eat, couldn't have said. Soup, chicken or otherwise, rarely figured in her dinner choices. She slowly dunked her bread in the soup, and swallowed it. One hard-fought battle to escape her stomach later, the soup and bread lost. Just. She sipped at her water, and hoped that her stomach would stay put and hold on to the next mouthful of bread or soup. She wasn't convinced. She dunked the bread, and nibbled. The morsel stayed put.

Castle had long finished not only his first helping of soup but a second, before Beckett managed to swallow around half of her lunch. He flicked a glance at her bowl, and then her face, and then the hand supporting her head.

"Bedtime, Beckett."

"'Kay." She left the table without ceremony, and stumbled to the stairs. Before she'd hit the first tread, Castle had caught up with her, slung an arm around her, and, while he hadn't scooped her up, was certainly supporting a good proportion of her weight.

"I'm not carrying you if your stomach is upset," he explained. "It wouldn't be good for you."

"'Kay."

She took her meds under Castle's supervision, and as soon as he left stripped and fell into bed. She was asleep almost before her lashes brushed her cheek: her lack of rest for several nights finally catching up with her.

Unfortunately, lack of rest didn't stop the nightmares.

Castle, lurking on the landing, heard Beckett pull up the covers and breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe she'd get the sleep she needed. He hadn't missed the dark rings forming beneath her eyes; nor her inability to eat. He automatically checked Alexis's room, and then started back downstairs.

He spun around. That had been a whimper. He toed his shoes off so that he wouldn't wake Beckett, and padded back to her room. Another whimper arrived. He slipped in, and saw her tightly curled into a foetal position: defensive and taut; face terrified. Nightmare, logic said. Make it better, emotion said.

Logic was over-rated.

He shrugged. She wouldn't kill him. Probably. Maybe. Anyway, it would be worth it.

Half a moment later, Castle had stripped to his boxers. He took one more look at the bed full of tormented Beckett, shrugged again, and slid in beside her, sneaking one arm below her neck and the other over her waist so that she was spooned against his bulk. For an instant, he thought it hadn't worked, and then she eased a fraction, stretched out, sighed in her sleep, and was calm.

About that point, Castle worked out that he had a problem. Well, two problems. One was the, um, obvious physical reaction to being in bed with Beckett. The other was that he wasn't at all sleepy and he had nothing to do but cuddle Beckett and try to control himself. Maybe he could just quickly – really quickly – whip out, find a book, and whip back. He could stay in contact with Beckett and read. Something boring and dry. An encyclopaedia. The thesaurus. That sort of thing. Absolutely not Nikki-the-next.

He carefully detached his arm from under Beckett's neck. She didn't stir. Phew. One problem down. Before he moved again, he considered where a suitable book might be located, so that he could go right to it and be away for as little time as possible. He had no confidence at all, given Beckett's general state, that leaving her, even for a very few moments, wouldn't return her to nightmare. He decided. He'd been sent a manuscript by an aspiring author, which he hadn't looked at. Gina would have his blood (liver, kidneys, and other intimate areas) if he didn't. It wasn't a mystery story: it was a paranormal tale. About shapeshifting panthers in Manhattan, apparently. Not his thing at all, but Gina had forced it on him – to amuse him, she said. It wasn't commercial. Now, where had he left it? Of course, thinking about that bought him more time cuddled up to Beckett, which wasn't to be sniffed at, but more time being cuddled up to Beckett meant more time trying to control his disobedient hindbrain, which had lots of ideas about being cuddled up to Beckett, absolutely none of which should be acted upon without said cuddled-up Beckett being awake, consenting, and not injured. He wrestled his hindbrain into submission and thought about manuscripts.

Oh. Oh, yes. He'd shoved it in a drawer. Top drawer, right hand side. Okay. He eased himself out of the covers, removed his hand from Beckett's slender waist last of all, and ran for the stairs. Behind him, he didn't hear anything.

Yet.

He found the manuscript, dashed back upstairs, and found Beckett occupying the entire king-size bed, sprawled out and still soundly asleep. There was no hint of her cramped foetal position, or of misery.

He should go back downstairs and leave her to her peaceful sleep, now that she'd finally found it. But what if she relapsed into more nightmares? She had to rest. She'd never get better if she didn't rest…It didn't take him long to argue himself around to sliding back into the bed and ensuring that he was touching her. She made a contented little noise, wriggled into his hand, and sank back into her slumbers. He'd swear the dark circles had already lightened.

Beckett snuggled into the delightful warmth of the bed, wishing she didn't have to wake up. She loved the comforting aroma of Castle's cologne and his big, broad body cuddling her in – What the hell? She sat bolt upright.

"What the hell? Castle? What are you doing in my bed?"

"Uh?" Castle blinked. "Uh…reading? This is a really good story! It's got everything: shapeshifters, a detective and shadow just like you and me, murders, romance… You have to read it."

"Why are you reading in my bed?"

Castle's ears coloured. "Uh…"

"Castle," Beckett said ominously.

"You-were-whimpering-and-having-a-nightmare-so-I-was-comforting-you," Castle blurted in one breath. "You weren't sleeping restfully and you have to rest. When I cuddled you, the nightmare stopped. So I found a manuscript that Gina insisted I read, and it's actually good which makes a change, though it'll never be commercial, and made sure you slept properly. It must be time for your antibiotics," he diverted. "I'll go make some dinner." He whisked out of the bed, grabbed his clothes, and ran.

Beckett stared at his departing back, pulled a couple of pillows awkwardly behind her, leaned against them, and tried to make sense of the last five minutes. Or possibly, looking at the clock, the last four hours. She wriggled further into the pillows, and thought. Mostly, what she thought was that Castle next to her felt absolutely right. Part of her thought that she could actually think, which meant that she'd slept properly, which meant…oh. Castle's crazy idea had worked. Park that one for later consideration.

And a sensible part of her thought that she should go and wash, redo her dressings, take her antibiotics, and eat some dinner. She fixed herself up, and went downstairs.

Castle was fussing in the kitchen: a pan emanating an appetising smell; noodles ready to be dropped into a bubbling pot. "Stir fry," he said, regarding her cautiously. "Not too spicy, since your stomach wasn't good earlier."

"I feel better now," Beckett said, "but I'll stick to water with it, thanks."

"Okay." Castle stirred and shuffled, and shortly there was dinner.

Beckett, finding that she was hungry, ate with considerable appetite, and then requested seconds. Those also gone, she added a modicum of ice cream, and more or less rolled to the couch to commune with her digestion.

Castle made coffee, and joined her. "You must be feeling better," he said. "Good."

"Yeah." Beckett sipped her coffee.

"I guess your session didn't go well," he suggested.

"Nope." Beckett bit off the plosive.

"Do you have to go back?"

"Yep." Another bitten-off plosive. Castle half-expected to be deluged with pieces of 'P'. "Gates put me on medical leave till Burke gives psych clearance."

"Oh." He remembered that. He also remembered, two days late, that he'd been expected to update Gates, and hadn't. He'd do that – by text – later.

Beckett could read Castle's relief that she'd eaten plenty as easily as she'd read any of his books. However, the effort involved in digesting was sufficient that she had no desire to complain. Anyway, it was nice to be looked after, occasionally. Still, it wouldn't be happening for long if they – she – didn't clear the air. She didn't want to. She wanted to snuggle in and sleep, safe in Castle's arms.

She bit her lip, summoned her courage, and began.

"I…" she started, and stopped. She didn't know what to say. "I do trust you. All of you." She stopped again. Castle, unusually, said nothing, and didn't try to touch her. Her heart sank. Just as she'd thought, she'd broken everything. She set her jaw, and went on. "I don't trust me."

Castle made a very odd noise, and subsided. He still wasn't touching her. She could really have used a hug. She moved away from him, into the protective curve of the corner of the couch.

"I don't trust me," she repeated. "I don't trust that I won't do something to screw everything up. Every time there's been a real problem…everyone's gone. The only common factor is me." She drew a small, painful breath. "I run away" – Castle heard the echo of his anger, and winced – "because that way I can fix me without needing to worry about anyone else."

"How's that trusting others?" Castle snapped.

"I trust that they'll be there when I get back! If I'd done that when Mom died then Dad wouldn't have collapsed into whiskey! He couldn't fix how I felt and he drank himself unconscious so he didn't see how bad I was. If I'd run away then he wouldn't have needed to!" She brought her rising voice under strict control. "I don't run away. I remove myself so a bad situation doesn't get even worse."

"Bullshit," Castle spat. "Complete and utter bullshit."

"It's not."

"It's the biggest load of bullshit since buffalo roamed the Great Plains in their millions. Who told you that crap? I bet it wasn't your shrink. That's nonsense. You run off and hide because you think you screw up everyone around you? Just because your dad couldn't deal with his grief and yours, you've thought – if you were thinking, which I totally disagree with – you should hide everything from everyone and come back when you've covered it up? You're batshit crazy, Beckett."

Her pallor wouldn't have disgraced a week-old corpse. Castle barrelled on.

"You don't rely on anyone 'cause your dad wasn't there when you needed to rely on him. Who else – oh. That Fed. You couldn't rely on him 'cause he fucked up that previous case. And then he tried to pull macho crap on you 'cause he got a promotion and he didn't care about your career so you couldn't rely on his feelings for you. So now you won't rely on anyone you actually care about – friends, family, partners, lovers – because the two key people you cared about let you down. That's nothing to do with you screwing up and everything to do with them being weak – oh." He stopped again. "And that's why you won't show anyone weakness. In case we think we can't rely on you. There's no fucking comparison between getting shot and dying and turning into an alcoholic or a male chauvinist prick." His voice filled the loft. "Nobody with half a brain thinks you're weak 'cause you got shot, which just proves that you don't have even half a brain."

"Get out of my head!" Beckett yelled, and finished on a gasp of pain as she banged her arm against the couch.

"I won't!" Castle yelled back, having lost the last shreds of his temper and control as Beckett produced a reason for running away that didn't make sense in any reality, let alone this one. "I'm not letting you be such a complete fucking idiot for one more moment and if you try I'm marching into your shrink's office with you and telling him how batshit crazy you really are. If you weren't injured I'd shake some sense into you because this makes no sense at all!"

He gulped down air and hammered on. "So because you're so damn dumb you think you're weak for getting shot, you double down on that insanity and lie to me about hearing me because you think you're even weaker for not wanting to remember dying and then you double down again to punish yourself for lying and then again after that because you start having flashbacks! Sure you have fucking flashbacks! You can't – nobody could – cope with the lies and the pain and the memories when it's all shoved under your nose by a case that hits all your buttons that you never should've taken in the first place!"

Beckett flinched.

"I bet your shrink told you that too," Castle wound up. "You're – I have no words for how crazy you've been. None." In instant belying of his words, he began again. "And then you put the tin lid on it all by not even thinking about getting those cuts treated because you were too scared we'd think you couldn't deal with the case and too scared that Gates would bench you and just too damn scared of your whole life!"

"Shut up! You're wrong. You're completely wrong. You don't know anything about it so just shut up and stop walking through my head and trampling all over me and I want to go home and be alone." She burst into furious tears, surging from the couch and aiming for the stairs – and running straight into Castle's wide body, firmly in her way.

"You are not going home. You're staying right here" –

"I don't have to sit here with you, though. If you won't take me home you can let me past so I can be on my own without you bulldozing your way into my head."

"No! You're staying here and you are going to talk to me" –

"I won't! I just tried talking to you and all that happened was you told me I was all wrong and yelled. I'm not sitting here to be yelled at so you can go sit on a stick and swivel for all I care, and if you won't take me home, I'll call Ryan and he will."

"Not if I don't let him in. Anyway, he won't take you home because he knows – and Espo, before you go there – that you need looked after and since you won't do it yourself I'm your only option. Unless you want to explain to your dad what's been going on?" he ended with delicate malice.

Beckett really didn't want to explain to her father. But she didn't want to listen to Castle either, especially as a gnawing space in her gut was trying to tell her she should.

"And if you start trying to leave I'll call Gates." Castle finished up on the nuclear option. "She wants to know that you're getting treatment, and leaving here means you aren't."

Absolute silence fell into the room, now at an emotional temperature of absolute zero.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Guest: Beckett's healthy weight in the last chapter was taken directly from the Google info on Stana Katic's weight.