Someone to Lean On

A/N: This takes place during 4x09 Kill Shot, when Beckett is having her PTSD episode. I honestly hate the thought of her going through that alone, so in this version, Castle comes to check on her. It turned out longer than I'd intended, but oh well, haha! I hope you enjoy!

—-

Castle sat at his desk, swirling the crystal glass of whiskey in his hand. He watched the amber liquid slosh against the sides of the glass until he felt almost hypnotized by the rhythmic motion.

He couldn't get his mind off Beckett.

Though that wasn't necessarily unusual for him, tonight it was different. He hadn't been this worried about her in a long, long time.

He recalled the look on her face as she'd shouted at their suspect, the shooting range owner. The way the dead look in her eyes had lingered, even when he'd tried to offer her coffee afterwards. How her entire body was coiled with a kind of tension that could only be a result of the trauma response she was trying so hard to keep contained.

He stopped swirling the glass and glanced over at the clock.

It was after nine. Beckett was likely home by now, in her apartment. All alone.

Castle grimaced.

On some level, he knew this was none of his business. That Beckett would want to deal with whatever was going on inside her on her own. But he also knew from experience that she'd be the last person to ask for help, too. That she'd just as soon suffer in silence than risk opening herself up to the possibility that she might need someone else to lean on.

She may hate him for this.

(But he may hate himself if he didn't at least try).

Castle rose from the desk and grabbed his coat, heading out the door into the frigid November air.

—-

He must have stood outside Kate's door for a solid two minutes before he'd gathered the courage to knock. Or rather, the urgency to knock.

He heard some scuffling and then the sound of glass shattering. He heard a shriek, and suddenly his fists were pumping against her door.

"Kate!" he called out, and continued to pound in regular intervals. When she didn't answer, he tried the doorknob. It was locked.

"Kate, it's me. Open up!" he tried again. His veins were fizzling with fear, making his legs feel weak and his breathing come in irregular pants.

What felt like ages passed before Kate finally opened the door, though only an inch. She peered through the crack with one eye, and Castle knew something was very, very wrong.

"Castle?" she breathed, but it sounded more like a low moan. Even through the crack he could tell she was shaking.

Gently, he placed one hand on her door, trying to ease it open a little. Kate remained firm on the other side, but he managed to open it enough to at least see her whole face.

"Hey, it's me. I'm here," he murmured, and lowered his face until he was eye level with her. "I was worried–" he started to explain, but he stopped. This wasn't about him. This was about her.

"Can I come in?" he tried again, slowly, so as not to startle her.

Seconds ticked past. She stared at him with eyes so wide and vacant, he wondered what she was seeing when she saw him. Where was she? How did he get her back?

Finally, wordlessly, Kate opened the door.

That was when Castle saw the blood.

It was running down her arm, staining her grey NYPD t-shirt. He tried to rein in his shock, but his body reacted before he could shut down his own feelings of panic. His fingers trembled as he reached out on instinct to touch her arm.

Beckett flinched away from him, her other hand moving to rest firmly on the handle of the gun tucked into the front of her jeans.

"Beckett, it's just me. Please. Let me help you," he murmured softly, hands outstretched, placating.

She backed away a step inside her apartment, finally speaking. She sounded like a husk of her true self. "You shouldn't be here."

He took a half step towards her. "I'm just here to help. Please let me help you."

"I don't need your help," she seethed, and he wasn't sure he'd ever heard her sound so venomous before. It was startling, and he almost regretted coming at all. But everything about her demeanor - everything about her state of mind, her injury - told him she needed him. That she should not, under any circumstances, be alone right now.

But Beckett was proud. He knew her well enough to know that he couldn't force this, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Okay, then you don't," he said instead. "But I'm here. I won't help you if you don't want me to. But I'm here, okay? You're not alone. We can work through this."

Beckett stood slightly hunched, like she was caving in on herself. With one trembling hand on her gun, she stared Castle down. He took in her appearance: hair curly and wild, face flushed, and eyes wide and terrified. He saw the shattered glass out of the corner of his eye, and could smell the whiskey, as if it had been spilled on the floor, maybe even on her jeans, too.

He'd walked into something he'd never in a million years expected to find.

Castle couldn't help but bite his lip in anticipation. She had to accept his help. She just had to.

Finally, after the longest standoff they'd likely ever had, her posture loosened. Her hand fell down to her side, and a small, frustrated huff left her mouth. Her eyes curved down in the corners, and she looked down miserably at the floor.

"Castle…" she whispered, and it was enough to spur him into action.

He raced towards her, wrapping her up in his arms. She snuffled against his shirt, and he threaded one hand through her wild hair while the other pressed firmly against her back.

"Come on, Kate. Let's clean that cut up, okay?" he said into the top of her head, and she nodded against his chest.

After giving her one final, reassuring squeeze, he let go, and with one arm wrapped around her shoulders, he led her into the kitchen. When they got to the sink, he reached up under her armpits and lifted her with ease until she was sitting on the counter. She let out a breath of surprise, but said nothing in protest.

"Where is your first aid kit?" he asked gently, and ran a thick wad of paper towels under cold water.

She looked vacantly down the hallway, pointing. "Bathroom."

He handed her the paper towels. "Put pressure on it, okay? I'll be right back." She nodded, and he left to find the kit.

As weird as it felt, rifling through Beckett's bathroom, he knew it was justified. She hadn't said where exactly it would be, and he found it tucked behind the tampons under the sink. It felt so… personal, to be here. But it was worth it, so he tried to push the discomfort out of his mind.

He found her staring into the sink, one hand holding the paper towels to her wound. She was still covered in blood, and he half-wondered if he should try to find her a clean shirt to wear. But he decided to wait. One thing at a time, Rick.

After turning on the kitchen light, he opened the kit on the counter, sifting through its contents. He grabbed the alcohol swabs, a roll of bandages, and neosporin, and set them beside Beckett's thigh.

He looked up at her, and tried to ignore the tear tracks he could now see on her cheeks. He hadn't noticed them before, when she'd been cast in darkness, but now they glistened in the fluorescent light of her kitchen.

She must have realized he was staring, because she lifted her one free hand to swipe at her face. "I'm fine," she muttered, but it fell on deaf ears.

Castle said nothing in response. There was no point. They both knew she was lying.

Gently, Castle took the paper towels from Beckett's hand. He wiped up as much blood as he could from her skin, checking along the way for shards of glass, before depositing the wad into the trash. Then, he looked up at her, making eye contact, as he opened the alcohol packet.

"This is going to hurt," he warned.

She fixed him with a hard stare. "I know."

Biting his lip, Castle braced himself. He tenderly dabbed at the wound, trying to ignore the hissing sounds of pain coming from Beckett's lips. God, he hated this.

When he was done, he tossed the offending object in the trash. Smoothing one hand over her hair, he tried to smile. "Hard part's over, okay? It doesn't look like it needs stitches. Just gonna bandage you up now, alright?" Beckett nodded, her eyelids heavy with pain.

He washed his hands before administering the neosporin with the tip of one finger. Then, he wrapped her entire forearm in the crisp white bandage.

When he was done, he clicked his tongue, admiring his work. "Not too bad, huh?"

Beckett said nothing, but hopped down off the counter. "Hey, where ya goin'?" he asked her, arm encircling her waist. He'd planned on getting her a change of clothes or maybe making her some tea. But he should have known she'd retreat.

She pushed lightly at him. "I wanna go to bed. You can go home now, Castle. I'm fine." She sniffed, and his heart cracked even more.

"I'm not going anywhere."

She turned to scowl at him. "I said I'm fine."

He pressed his lips into a firm line. "And I hear you. But I'm also letting you know that I'm not leaving."

She glared. He glared right back. They were, once again, at a stalemate.

"Fine," she finally said through gritted teeth, and turned to stalk towards the bedroom. The door slammed behind her, punctuating her disdain, and leaving Castle with nothing but the ache of her absence.

—-

It took almost an hour, but her apartment was swept and cleaned, without even a trace of broken glass. Castle looked around, proud of his work and finally fully-convinced he'd done the right thing by coming here. Quite frankly, he didn't care that Beckett was mad at him. She'd needed help, and he'd helped. She'd thank him someday, he was sure of it.

But now, he was faced with the decision of whether he should truly stay, or go home. Her bedroom had been quiet for the last hour. He hoped she'd fallen asleep.

Mollified by the fact that Beckett's gun still remained on the kitchen counter where she'd left it, Castle decided to check on her. Once he confirmed that she was asleep, he'd let himself out.

Tiptoeing across the wooden floor, Castle tried to be as quiet as he could. He slowly turned the doorknob, and, using the door as a shield from her potential fury, poked his head through the minimal gap.

Beckett was sitting up in her bed, arms wrapped around her legs. She was sobbing, as silently as she could, into her knees.

Castle froze. He hadn't expected to find her like this.

The light spilling into the room must have caught her attention, because Beckett's eyes snapped up. She choked upon seeing him staring at her.

"What are you still doing here?" she managed to gasp between heavy breaths, and Castle wasn't quite sure what to say. He stood in the doorway, his silhouette falling on her.

He did the only thing he could think of. All thoughts of courtesy and caution were thrown out the window as he approached her bed in three long strides. He sat down beside her, one knee bent and the other foot flat on the floor, and he threw both arms around her frail body.

She was tense at first, frozen in a block of surprise. But then her wall fell and she melted into his side, her gasps and whines having sound and substance now. She wrapped her uninjured arm across his stomach, pressed her face into his chest, and Kate fell apart.

He held her close as she cried, planting soft kisses onto the top of her head, murmuring that she was going to be okay. He rubbed a comforting hand up and down her back, her upper arm, reminding her through his touch that she was not alone.

His heart was torn to shreds, seeing her like this. Knowing that she suffered like this because he'd been seconds too slow. He hadn't saved her. She felt this pain because he hadn't done enough to protect her from that sniper in the first place.

His own tears dropped onto her head, but she didn't seem to notice.

Eventually, Beckett stilled. Her face was pressed against his stomach now, and Castle felt a kind of heaviness to her. It didn't take him long to deduce that she'd fallen asleep.

Carefully, once he was sure she wouldn't stir, he slid out from beneath her and helped reposition her against her pillows. Her face was still wet with her tears, but her mouth hung open in deep, well-earned sleep. She finally looked peaceful, when the memories weren't right there at the surface, threatening to swallow her whole. It gave Castle pause as he stood by her bedside, staring down at her.

"Goodnight, Kate," he whispered, and ran one hand along the back of her head. He couldn't help it.

As guilty as he felt letting himself out of Kate's apartment, Castle knew it was the right decision. She'd be horrified and defensive if she found him there in the morning, given everything he'd witnessed. He didn't love the idea of leaving her alone, but for the sake of salvaging their friendship, he knew this was what Kate needed.

So, he locked the door behind him and shut her front door with a firm click. His hand lingered on the doorknob, and he sighed before turning to head back home.