Chapter 21

Thursday began quietly. The weather was horrible, so they had no opportunity to go out. Beckett would have liked to go for a long walk through Central Park, where she might have been able to talk to Castle without actually having to meet his eyes. Burke's comment that she could discuss her self-punishment with Castle gnawed at her mind, and she was uncomfortably conscious that she hadn't done so the day before. She was also uncomfortably conscious that Castle wasn't asking about it, deafeningly loudly. She hunched on the couch, clutching her coffee in both hands, seeking inspiration in its depths and finding none.

Castle flicked a glance at the mound of miserable thought otherwise known as Kate Beckett, and clamped his mouth firmly shut. A few seconds later, he glanced again: bit his tongue, closed his lips firmly, glanced, repeated.

"What is it, Castle?" Beckett snapped.

"That's my line. What's up with you? You haven't drunk your coffee."

"Thinking." She returned to staring into the liquid. "I didn't do it deliberately," she said desolately, which initially meant absolutely nothing to Castle. Abruptly, light dawned.

"Did Burke say you did?" he essayed.

"No. But I didn't," she defended.

"So why won't he clear you?" Castle asked, feeling his way cautiously through the implication that Burke had told Beckett she was subconsciously punishing herself.

"Says I have to understand why, so I don't do it again with a worse outcome," she told her coffee.

Castle, very privately behind his skull, thought that Burke might just have the right of that. This time had been bad enough. A worse outcome…well, that didn't bear thinking about. "We could bounce it around, like with cases," he suggested. "That usually helps you clarify your thinking. My theories are great." Much to his astonishment, that didn't receive a snarky retort. When he sent the next glance towards her, she was still staring into the coffee. He decided on the risky action of prodding the Beckett-bear into thinking about her emotions and actions.

"If Burke said you were punishing yourself, do you agree with that?"

"I didn't do it deliberately," she repeated. "I didn't know I was doing it."

"Okay," Castle said agreeably. "That's fair. But now you have to work out why you were doing it."

Beckett ignored that. "Montgomery benched me, the first time," she explained to her coffee. "But we didn't cover this in therapy then."

Castle goggled, fortunately unseen. "What was that about?" he asked. "You said he'd stopped you investigating and shoved you off to therapy before, but how does it fit with this?" In his head he was thinking you did this before? You went to therapy that time but you weren't physically hurt – but you were this time. Oh fuck. Worse could be so much worse.

"He said I was punishing myself for letting my father fall, for leaving him to drown, for saving myself when I couldn't save him – for everything since the day the cop knocked on our door with Mr Beckett? I'm sorry…" She sniffed damply. "But I didn't agree with him. So I never mentioned it in therapy because I didn't believe him." She sniffed again. A drop plinked into her coffee. "But when I had to unpick this one Burke made me see that it was linked."

"I see," Castle said slowly. He thought he did see. Deny, deflect, defer – ignore. Beckett's usual reaction to any inconvenient emotion – or anything that she…couldn't…control. Oh, fuck. He was suddenly, horrifyingly, reminded of Esposito's comment, way back right at the beginning. A control freak like you with something you can't control? No, no, no, that's going to be more fun than Shark Week. Esposito had meant it as a joking gibe, but Castle abruptly saw the point in a whole different, glaring light. Beckett hadn't been able to control him, and she'd denied her feelings right up till around a week ago – and she'd punished herself for her lies and running off and ignoring him. Beckett hadn't been able to control the investigation of her mother's murder, or her father's collapse into alcohol – and she'd punished herself for both of those too.

The next few minutes were not likely to go well.

He assembled his thoughts, set his jaw to determined, and began. "I have a theory," he said. "Don't shoot me till you've heard it."

"No gun," Beckett snipped.

"Good, 'cause I don't think you're going to like this much."

"I don't like any of this much. You can't make it worse."

Castle wasn't convinced by that. Beckett stared into her coffee some more.

"My theory is that if you're punishing yourself – subconsciously," he added hastily, "it's for not being able to control everything around you."

"Huh?"

"Look, even you admit you're the biggest control freak in creation, and you think you should be able to control everything in your life. So when you can't, you punish yourself for failing to control things."

Beckett, who had opened her mouth to contradict Castle, abruptly shut it. She threw her coffee back, frowning furiously. Castle, with a severe and unusual attack of common sense and self-preservation, said nothing, but took her mug and went to make more coffee. Being out of the blast radius of a Beckett explosion was, to be fair to him, only a part of his thinking.

When he returned to the couch, Beckett's frown had carved crevasses in her forehead, and her hands were knotting and unknotting in her lap. Castle put the coffee in front of her, and didn't disturb her thinking. She tossed back the scalding second coffee, and surged up. "I need to run," she said, and disappeared. Scant moments later she reappeared, dressed for winter running in thick pants and hoodie.

"It's raining," Castle said.

"I don't care. I have to move. If I don't move I'll explode." She was gone an instant later. Castle tried to contain his worry, cleared up, and prepared lunch: a thick tomato soup, with which they would have – he would have, and Beckett might or might not eat – grilled cheese sandwiches. He had no idea how long she might run for – though he thought that she'd forgotten that only yesterday she hadn't been able to run. So, of course, had he.

He wondered if she'd do it anyway: hurting herself in service of the greater goal of defeating her demons; or if she'd realise that running herself into pain would simply bring another demon to the hellish party.

Beckett simply had to move. She couldn't think sitting still – or more accurately, she couldn't think with Castle sitting beside her: the weight of his thoughts and expectations clogging her mind. The weather was filthy, but at least it meant that there were fewer people to get in her way. She took the subway to Central Park, and began to move. After ten yards, she realised that she wasn't going to be able to run fast, and that she should really just walk. She might get even wetter, but at least she wouldn't be ripping her knees open again. She began to walk, hood up: long, smooth strides which didn't strain the grazes on her knees.

She really did not like Castle's comment. The problem was, the more she worried at it, the more it rang true. She was always in control. Always. Even as a child, she'd made sure that her life was organised to her satisfaction. She'd never had a late assignment, and when she'd set herself a goal, she'd achieved it – or changed it where circumstances required it.

That would be once. The change from lawyer to cop. Otherwise, she'd achieved. Over-achieved, said a small voice, and it didn't sound like a compliment. When she had difficulties, she'd worked hard – and harder – to overcome them. When she'd met an obstacle, she'd conquered it. Her whole life had been within her control…

Except for the fallout from her mother's murder – the murder, the failure to solve it, her father's alcoholism, her shooting – and except for her dealings with Castle. Or not. Because the lie had been within her control. Castle generally wasn't, but that one lie – was.

She squirmed. Sure, she couldn't control Castle, or his feelings – and she shouldn't: controlling other people was a Bad Thing – but she could have controlled her reactions. She had controlled her reactions – right up till the moment she was shot. She'd been all ready to move forward, and then she'd completely lost control of the situation.

Dying, after all, wasn't controllable (unless you suicided, and she wasn't in that headspace and never had been).

But, her unpleasant little voice reminded her, you could control what happened next. Just because you were doped up and in pain, didn't mean you had to lie, or run off without a word. That wasn't lack of control, it was cowardice, and you know it.

So. She walked on, through the sheeting rain, dripping wet and not really noticing. So. Actions associated with the murder – not within her control, but she'd punished herself for being unable to control or fix them – it didn't really matter whether it was one or the other, or even both. She'd done it, because she'd always pushed through obstacles, worked harder till it was done. She – oh.

She hadn't recognised that sometimes you can't succeed. She'd never failed…she'd always worked until she succeeded…but sometimes, you just can't succeed. She hadn't known when to stop.

Overachiever, the voice said again, and this time she understood the issue. It wasn't exactly punishing herself, though that had been the result, it was the failure to – cut her losses. The loss, in this case, being her mental health.

Okay, she thought, one down. That left the ugly truth of the whole Castle debacle. Point one: she couldn't have controlled being shot, or the pain and brain-fog afterwards. She still couldn't control whether she would ever recover fully: be able to bear children if she wanted them (a vision of a tiny Castle-alike sneaked into her mind, and for the first time that day she smiled). Point two: she could have controlled the situation. She could have told him that she'd heard him. Everything else…sprang from that. If she'd only been braver…

And yes, she had punished herself for her lies and cowardice: working harder and harder to prove (to herself? To Castle?) that she was still a great cop; hoping that it would outweigh her behaviour; hoping that penance and hair shirts would atone and that he'd still love her.

But all she'd had to do – all she would have had to do, at any point from recovering consciousness till a week ago – was confess; because (unlooked for benefice) he had forgiven. She hadn't expected that. But he had.

And if you'd thought about it for a single sensible second, her nasty voice pointed out, you would have known that. Sure, he'd be upset and likely angry – but not for long.

Beckett flomped down on a soaking wet bench and struggled to control her emotions. She didn't succeed. Finally, bedraggled inside and out, clothes soaked and face still dripping mingled rain and tears, she slowly exited the park, scrubbed her face with her sleeve, and took the subway back to Castle's loft.

"You're drenched!" Castle exclaimed. "And you're freezing. You have to get into a hot bath right now." He dashed off, and Beckett heard the faucets running as she trudged into the bedroom behind him and started to strip off her soaking clothes, dropping them on the floor and realising that she was shivering. Castle, leaving the water running, dashed back into the bedroom, came to a shuddering halt, staring at Beckett in bra and panties and nothing else, her normally creamy skin rather blue. He snatched up his towelling robe, and swathed her in it. He hugged her, rubbing the fabric of the robe against her skin until she looked a little less blue; and then walked her through to the bathroom where the bath was full, bath salts bubbling gently.

"Hop in," he suggested. "I'll go put the soup on for lunch." He exited rapidly, closing the doors of the bathroom, bedroom and study behind him. As soon as he thought that Beckett couldn't hear him, he raised his fists upward and half screeched his disbelief. How could she have been so downright dumb? He might as well put the soup on, he thought, and did, on a low heat.

Then he marched straight back to the bathroom, rapped assertively on the door, and waited.

"Uh, come in?" Beckett said. She didn't sound overwhelmed by emotion. Nor did she sound repentant. Castle stalked in, ready to berate her for stupidity. "I thought it through," she said, and his mouth snapped shut. "I know I'm soaked and cold, but I worked it out so it was worth it." She looked him full in the face, and he realised that her eyes were brimming with tears. "It wasn't quite like you said." Her gaze dropped. "Mom's murder…yeah. But after I was shot…that was all my own fault."

Castle thumped down on the stool near the sink.

"If I'd just told you I heard you…and then if I was still Nikki, if you still thought I was Nikki, supercop, maybe I could make it right so I just worked and worked trying to prove it and it was like penance."

At that point, Castle managed to close his mouth and un-drop his jaw.

"It wasn't that I wasn't in control. It was that I was but I got it wrong. I guess…I guess I thought then that if I didn't tell you I would be able to work things out and then I'd be in control when I could tell you, but then I couldn't and I felt guilty and it all went wrong."

Castle almost fell off the stool in his haste to catch Beckett's sodden self in and cosset her close. "There, there," he petted. "Don't cry. We fixed that. You can fix this all too." He petted further. "I was cross that you got chilled and soaked but if you've worked it out, it's okay. Don't cry, Beckett. It's not natural."

She snuffled, then sniffed hugely, then snuffled again. Castle cossetted some more, heedless of his damp shirt, and tried to process the last fifteen minutes or so into some sort of sense.

"Today wasn't punishing myself," she whispered. "I didn't run. I walked, and thought." She gulped. "I couldn't think here. Even if I'd gone upstairs…" She trailed off.

"I was too close," Castle realised. "Just like…just like in the hospital. You needed some space." She nodded, and gulped. "It's…it's okay." Suddenly, he grinned. "I can't imagine why you need space from my exceptional charm, wit and personality, but as long as you always come back, I'll cope." He expected a soggy snort. Instead, she snuffled further, and then dropped her head into her hands. "Don't cry," he repeated yet again, and then stopped talking and acted, locating the towels and the robe, lifting less-blue in skin tone but more-blue (practically purple) in mood Beckett out from the bath and wrapping her in his huge, fluffy towels to dry her. That done, he re-wrapped her in the robe, and then simply picked her up and carried her to the family room, depositing her on the couch with a comforting cuddle and stroke of her hair. It didn't seem to be helping any.

He attended to the soup and put the would-be grilled cheese in to cook, setting the timer. He rather thought that the time was not likely to be his chief concern for the next few minutes, and burnt grilled cheese wasn't appetising.

Somehow, Castle's arm had found its way around Beckett's bedraggled, berobed self. It was stupidly, unreasonably comforting and wonderful. She curled in, seeking his warmth and the safe haven of his big body, and eased under his gentle stroking, though she was still cold. She whimpered when he stood up.

"Lunch. Tomato soup and grilled cheese. You need to eat something hot."

She stood in her turn and wobbled to the table. Castle served up the soup, and produced bubblingly hot grilled cheese. Beckett began with the soup, and polished it off in no time. Castle ladled out more, which likewise disappeared, along with the grilled cheese. Halfway through the third bowlful, she stopped, lifted her spoon, which wobbled, and put it down again.

"What's up?"

She yawned hugely. "I…I'm really tired, suddenly. I think I need to go to bed."

"Okay. Off you go."

Beckett stumbled unceremoniously to Castle's bedroom, and plunged out of consciousness at light-speed.

Castle meditatively ate his soup and grilled cheese, and thought. While he still deplored the idiocy of being out for well over two hours in the freezing rain, one step above sleet, it seemed like Beckett had finally identified her issues. On balance, therefore, she had known what she needed to do to fix herself, and had done it.

Now, she only needed to convince Burke of that.

In which case, he realised, he needn't – and shouldn't – do anything except cuddle his Beckett (and maybe take some cuddle-adjacent actions) and see her through tomorrow. He ambled through to the bedroom, and found her, still wrapped in his oversized robe, out cold on top of the covers. He smiled fondly, took a sneaky snap to preserve the moment, and left her to sleep.

Around an hour later, Castle was disturbed from writing in his study by small sounds of movement and wakening, audible through the open door. Shortly, there was the padding of bare feet on his wooden floors, and a moment later Beckett appeared, still sleep-tousled and hazy-eyed.

"Hey," she said uncertainly. "Have I been asleep long?"

He consulted his watch, which agreed with his laptop. "Not even two hours."

"'Kay." Beckett turned back to the bedroom.

"Where are you going?"

"To dress."

"You don't have to," Castle oozed, without involving his brain or indeed anything above his waist. "You're cute, all tousled and in my robe. Nobody else is here, so you can just stay like that if you want."

"I am not cute."

Castle smirked annoyingly. "Right now, you are. I mean, you're lots of things at different times, but right now you're cute. I've never seen you cute before. I like it." Beckett's glare removed all cuteness from her demeanour, and attempted to remove Castle's skin from his face. "And now you're back to normal." He grinned, and spun his chair around. "If you're back to normal, I can do this." He bounced up, hugged her, and sat down in a handy armchair with Beckett on his knee. She squawked. "Cuddles," he said happily. "Cuddles are good." Beckett raised one elegantly sceptical eyebrow, which, even when she was wrapped up in Castle's robe, had a remarkably quelling effect on his whimsy.

It did not have any sort of quelling effect on his pleasure at having Beckett in his lap. He cuddled her happily, nuzzled his nose into her hair, and enjoyed it. Since she wasn't arguing, mauling his ear, or shooting him, he expected that she was enjoying it too, even if she wouldn't admit it. He added a smooth, soft, and above all sensual stroke to his cuddle, and found that she wasn't arguing about that either. Indeed, her head had pillowed itself on his shoulder, and she had nestled closer. He stroked more seductively, and added some tiny kisses to her hair. It was all beautifully gentle…

Until she turned her head, placed a frankly lascivious lick along his jaw to the nerve below his ear, and then added a filthy little nibble.


Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

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