What if Castle is there when Beckett cuts her arm during "Kill Shot"? And what if the cut is a bit more serious?
Something was wrong.
She hadn't been herself all day.
She went at their suspect too hard, too fast. She kept claiming she was fine, but every time there was new movement on the case, she was a deer caught in the headlights, unsure how to move forward, stuck in the crosshairs.
He thinks of her that morning, instinctively ducking at the sharp whoop of the police siren and clutching the newspaper vestibule like it was a lifeline, her whole frame trembling, the look in her eye, feral and terrified.
And the Kate Beckett he knew didn't scare easily.
Something was wrong.
He needed to check on her.
He's outside her door when he hears the crash of furniture and glass; the sick thud of limbs hitting the floor. That can't be good. Can't be good at all.
He frantically inserts a spare key into the lock, one he'd stolen from her desk drawer at work. His fingers grasp the knob, turning it, and he shoves himself inside.
All he sees at first is a mess of curls. Then, her body, splayed, an arm jutting out awkwardly with a jagged line of blood from her wrist to her elbow. A cut. A deep cut.
Fuck, Kate. What did you do?
He didn't know. He hadn't known that it was still affecting her this much. He's been an idiot, pushing her, testing the limits of the boundaries she put in place. But she was still in recovery, trying to heal from the day a bullet almost hit her heart. He hadn't known she was still in physical therapy. Hadn't known—
Bleeding. She was bleeding.
He steps over a sticky spill. Whiskey, he thinks, as the faint smell of alcohol hits his nose. What the hell was she doing drinking alone, like this?
Long shards and diamond-sized pieces of glass lay scattered around her form, as if they'd exploded from inside her.
He feels for a pulse, two fingers just below her jaw and he finds one. Relief sweeps through him, but horror seizes his chest at the sight of her forearm. He wants to press down, compress the bleeding, but there's glass in her wound. She must've fallen onto it. He can't comprehend that she'd do anything deliberate. This had to be an accident. A horrible reaction to a horrible day.
"Kate, Kate, can you hear me?"
Her head lolls.
"Are you there? Kate?"
A groan. A sliver of consciousness. "Cassle?" she slurs.
Thank, God.
"I'm taking you to the hospital," he murmurs.
Before she can fully wake, he's scooping her into his arms. She's feather-light. Way too thin and brittle.
Like she could fall apart any second.
"New York-Presbyterian," he hollers at his driver, rattling off the name of the nearest place with an ER.
She was drunk and bleeding and full of glass. Why hadn't he intervened earlier? Seen how she was crumbling? He was supposed to protect her. Care for her. Love her.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," he chants into her hair, cradling her close, his lips pressing onto her scalp.
It seems like an eternity before they arrive, his whole world shrinking to just her. He can't lose her. Not now. Not ever.
His driver parks haphazardly and sprints out of his seat toward the sliding doors of the ER, hailing down the nearest hospital personnel. He's grateful for it as he starts to maneuver her out of the car. Within moments, he's able to pass her off into waiting hands, which slide her onto a gurney and rush her inside.
They fling questions at him in precise barks, each one knifing through him.
How long has she been unconscious? If we need to transfuse, what's her blood type? How did this happen?
Not long. She's been slipping in and out. O negative. Accident, I think. She's been drinking. He reels off, his heart in his throat, panic choking him. How did this happen?
They assure him she's a priority. That she'll be attended to straight away.
He collapses onto a chair in the waiting room, his head falling into his hands. Kate. Oh, Kate.
She needs help, and he doesn't know how to give it to her.
He wishes they could talk more. Talk about real things…the fight they had before Montgomery died. Before she bled out in front of him. Before he poured his heart out.
How did it get this bad?
He calls Jim and gets his voicemail.
He remembers Kate mentioning her father was heading up to the cabin for the holidays. The writer doesn't give much detail in his message, saying she's alright. Just a scratch, really. Nothing to worry about. He's got it handled.
But that feels like the biggest lie of them all.
She's slipping through his fingers and he doesn't know how to catch her.
He doesn't know how much later it is when he finally gets to see her.
He pulls the curtain around her bed in the ER trepidatiously, unsure if she's going to berate him for making such a big fuss over a cut.
But he's met with a peacefully resting Kate Beckett, all stitched and bandaged, her once-unruly curls carefully smoothed back into a french braid. She looks young and sweet and less like the woman who wears the weight of the world on her shoulders. Relief spills into his chest.
She's okay.
He approaches her bedside and sits on a nearby chair.
His hand seeks out hers, needing to make sure she's really there. Really okay.
He cups his fingers around hers, feeling her warm flesh, the blood pumping beneath her paper-thin skin. Alive. She's alive.
A sob explodes from his throat, a choking thing that quakes through him. He loves her. God, he loves her so much. It's killing him.
He buries his forehead in the mattress, trying to muffle the sounds of his breakdown. He's so caught up in reigning in his tears, he doesn't notice when her fingers elide from his grasp to card through his hair.
It's her soft voice that alerts him.
"Castle, hey. Shhh, it's okay. I'm okay," she murmurs.
His head immediately whips up.
"Kate."
And then she's smiling at him with the smile that unfurls slowly, stretches wide and lights up her eyes, her whole face glowing with it. God, he missed that smile.
It doesn't make sense. He expects her to glare at him, bite out a harsh command and throw him out because she doesn't want to be seen as weak and vulnerable, always needing to play strong. Always needing to hide away and lick her wounds alone.
But she's smiling and he wants to kiss her, press his love and relief and joy into her, but they're not there yet, so he settles for brushing his lips against her forehead, brief and chaste, a barely-there touch, but it's enough to elicit a slight gasp from her.
"I'm so glad you're okay," he croaks in a whisper and then her hand is palming his cheek, her thumb tenderly wiping the tears that leak from him.
"I'm sorry, Castle. I'm so sorry," she murmurs.
"Sorry for what?" he asks breathlessly, hyper-aware of her touch, his skin burning.
"I don't know how to do this." Her eyes shine with tears and his heart catches in his chest.
Her hand drops from his face, falling limply into the bedsheets.
He reaches for it, intertwining their fingers. "You don't have to do this," he says, "You're not the only cop in the city, Kate. And no one's asking you to be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. You're only human."
She huffs a watery, melancholy laugh and something cracks in him—the dam storing his feelings, fracturing at the base.
"And being vulnerable isn't a weakness," he adds, his voice hoarse.
Suddenly, she's tugging him to her, silently urging him onto the bed as she scoots to make space for him, and he can only stare at her, awestruck.
"They must have you on the good stuff," he jokes, unable to process this side of her. Of her being openly needy, of needing him.
"Rick. Please," she pleads, her naked desperation breaking his dam wide open.
And he's sliding in next to her, gently maneuvering his arm around her, tucking her into his side, powerless to resist. Powerless to deny her anything. All he's ever wanted to do is be there for her. Like this. Allowed to love her.
"Kate," he exhales as she sinks into him, her whole body seeming to sigh as it aligns with his, her head naturally nestling into the crook of his shoulder. "What happened?"
There's a long beat of silence, her bandaged arm laying on his chest, fingers mindlessly playing with the fabric of his shirt.
"I…I thought I could handle it. But the sniper. It's bringing it all back. That day—"
"Your shooting," he fills in quietly, wondering what all encompasses, but he's afraid to push, afraid to force the issue because she's finally talking. Finally letting him in.
She nods.
"My shrink says I have PTSD."
She shudders with the confession, as if she's just exorcised a demon, and he can't stop the flood of emotion that crashes through him—the gush of love and pride and gratitude for the fact that she's trusting him with this piece of herself. But he's also swamped with a deluge of grief; a cascade of sorrow for all the pain she's been dealing with, mostly on her own.
"I didn't know you were talking to someone," he gets out.
"Everything about that day…I'm still learning how to accept it, but, um, those walls I was telling you about—"
"Yeah?" he says, tentative, heart swelling with hope.
"I'm not sure how to knock them down. I'm scared I can't be more than this." She gestures at the hospital bed; her injury. "And I don't know if I'll ever be enough," she finishes in a broken whisper stained with heartache.
Oh, Kate.
"Kate, look at me."
She shifts slightly, her head rising and he tips her chin up with a forefinger, wanting her to see him, see how much he loves her. All of her.
"You're already enough."
Her eyes slam shut, tears slipping out the corners. He swipes them away in an affectionate caress.
"And those walls? I'll help you knock them down."
Her eyes fly back open, wild with hope. In a choked laugh of relief, she breathes out, "Yeah?"
His lips smooth over her forehead in a gentle kiss full of promise.
"That's what partners are for."
She dazzles him with that radiant smile, all soft and tender, before her head is falling back down and settling onto his chest, a puzzle piece slotting into place. A perfect fit. And he feels a deep pull of longing to have her like this all the time.
"Thanks for coming to get me," she sighs sleepily.
His reply rolls off his tongue with liquid ease.
"Always."
A/N: Hi there! Thought this fic was due for an update. I was totally bowled over by everyone's reaction to the first chapter, and I appreciate everyone who sent in prompts. I'm not sure when I'll get to them—really depends on what sparks for me.
It's always bugged me that Castle didn't push her more in this episode. I know Beckett thanks him for giving her space, but I also think it would've been a perfect opportunity to let him know she's working on herself and seeing a therapist and not just a physical one (which she mentions at the top of the episode). Alas!
Let me know your thoughts!