Trigger warning: Please know this contains mentions, and brief (non-graphic) flashbacks of rape. More notes at the end.

there's only so much i can carry before i fall

November 30th

White. Pristine. Clean.

It's what greets her when she peels open bleary eyes, blinking slowly until her vision focuses. She's in an uncomfortable bed, still wearing her clothes from the night before? Hours prior? She doesn't know what time it is.

She barely remembers stumbling into the hospital covered in bruises, barely remembers talking to any doctors or nurses, doesn't remember being checked in at all. It's foggy, but the longer she stares at the pale wall across from her, the more it comes flooding back. The memories play in slow motion and she watches on as if she's a viewer, not a participant, as if it's someone else and not her at all.

"Miss Beckett?"

The nurse's name tag reads Helen, and her voice is soft yet firm. Beckett fades out, catches maybe every fourth word. Something about x-rays, bruised ribs and worries of breaks. Her eyes glaze over at the mention of a rape-kit and she swallows hard, forces herself to blink it away.

She's in another room with another nurse ten minutes later, peeling the leggings from her body to be followed by the rest of her clothing. She deposits each item into the bags held by the nurse before slipping into the gown she's been given. She knows the procedure; she may work homicide, not sex crimes, but she knows.

The woman administering the exam asks her questions. Is she currently on birth control? Has she had sexual intercourse in the past five days? Was she under the influence? Did the assailant wear a condom?

They keep coming, question after question, personal and hard to both hear and answer. But she does, gives short yes or no answers because that's all she can manage.

Yes. No. No. Maybe.

The exam is uncomfortable and invasive. Her arms are held out, bruises on her wrists photographed, followed by her torso, her thighs. Bolts of flashing light against the backs of her eyelids accompany the click of a shutter.

She's given a handful of preventative pills that she swallows dry and is handed some clothes to change into, told she's welcome to shower now.

Results from her x-ray come back—severely bruised ribs, but none broken. Helen returns, calls her Miss Beckett once more (she doesn't tell them she's a detective, doesn't offer up any details that aren't absolutely necessary), tells her she should stay for overnight observation.

She offers the woman a polite smile and checks out AMA.

Her apartment feels small, claustrophobic. She makes a beeline for the bathroom, stopping only briefly to grab a new pair of leggings and a long, over-sized t-shirt from the basket of neatly folded laundry on her couch.

The water springs to life and she forces herself beneath the spray, grits her teeth and breathes through the sting of heat. She scrubs her body raw, skin tinged pink from the intense temperature and her rough strokes. She continues until the once soft material of her loofah turns to brillo, abrasive.

Time escapes her. Seconds turn to minutes, minutes to hours as she stands oriented towards the shower head, hands shielding her face.

The water's no longer hot.

She breathes in, out, repeats the process until her breath eventually catches, until her throat clogs up and the only thing she can do is choke out a sob. Hands now clamped over her mouth, tears mingle with drops of water already sliding down her cheeks.

Her body shakes, the force of the cries threatening to bring her to her knees, but she manages to remain hunched over, upright.

Sniffling, she wipes at her eyes, then grounds herself with her palms flat against the tile, tries to pull it together.

When she steps out, pulling a towel around her bruised body, she winces.

She does not look in the mirror.

Instead she dresses quickly, pads barefoot through her living room on autopilot, and fumbles through making a cup of tea with unsteady hands. It doesn't bring the warmth she needs.

Weariness clings to her bones like a glove, exhaustion blanketing her body. She looks towards her bedroom and stops in her tracks, a heaviness settling on her chest.

She can't.

Her legs carry her to the small drawer near the door, trembling fingers curling around what she's looking for before she tucks herself into the corner of the couch, tugs the throw from the back and covers her body.

She lingers between a restless sleep and a hyper vigilant state of awareness, gun settled beside her.

December 5th

She's at her desk before 5am, focus directed towards the pile of paperwork in front of her. It keeps her mind occupied, keeps her hands busy so they don't shake. By 7am when most of the officers trickle in, she's finished.

When Castle comes in at 8:30, she's too busy trying to find something else to do that she doesn't notice him, not until the clatter of a coffee cup colliding with the wooden surface makes her jump. When his hand brushes her shoulder, she flinches away, jerks her body back.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he says, raising his hand. She takes a deep breath, hissing as her still-sore ribs light with fire at the movement. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah—yeah, just didn't hear you coming."

"Paperwork that interesting?" he chuckles.

She manages a nod. "Something like that."

He gives her a look, one she knows far too well, one she absolutely cannot handle right now. And so she averts her gaze, looks everywhere and anywhere but at him, and when the boys come back in she practically jumps out of her chair, hoping for something new.

She tells Castle to take a ride with Ryan and Esposito to follow up the lead, says she'll stay behind to work on another angle. The boys give her confused stares and eventually shrug it off, but Castle's expression is far more concern than it is confusion.

"Go," she assures, mustering up a smile.

And so he does, hesitantly, and she excuses herself before they've even reached the elevator. The gym is empty at this hour, this she knows and is grateful for.

The punching bag becomes her best friend for the next hour and a half. It bucks beneath the force of each blow before swinging right back, ready for the next. Her ribs protest but she ignores the sharp jolts that shoot through her sides, tells herself they're bruised, not broken. The physical pain she can deal with fine enough. She needs the distraction more.

Her eyes close and choppy flashbacks play against the backs of her eyelids like a bad motion picture film. She doesn't open them, just tries to will them away, fists punching faster, harder, until her arms shake and the bag collides with her chest.

She doesn't fight when her legs give out, body slumping to the floor. Her chest heaves, silent tears now slipping unwelcomed down her cheeks as her hands come up to cover her mouth.

Taking a deep breath, she wipes them away, steels herself enough to push up from the ground.

As if nothing happened. Level once again.

December 8th

She withdraws from Castle, the boys, even from Lanie. Physically she's right beside them, but she's checked out. Not fully there, barely engaging except to offer insights and work through the cases.

It's not fully intentional. She still tries to go through her routine as normally and carefree as she knows how, but it falls flat. The jokes, the smiles, the effort. But it's working well enough, and she's been able to quell Castle's concern fairly easily by just offering him some of their usual banter in return.

Walking through the scenes become increasingly more difficult. She thinks, with misplaced bitterness, that the boys have no idea. They all walk away, go back to the precinct, continue to find the killers. They have no idea that she's trapped in her own body, in her mind. She can't get away from the crime scene, no matter how hard she tries.

Detachment doesn't work here.

In moments when it all becomes too much she shuts down completely, shuts everyone out.

Castle notices, she can tell, sees it in the way he studies her. The more she recognizes the hurt and concern building behind his eyes, the more she evades, the more she plasters on a smile whenever she can and assures him that she's fine.

It's not enough, but it's all she has.

This isn't for him to carry, for him to know. It's her burden.

Realistically, she knows she's done nothing wrong. It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's not her fault. But the knowledge doesn't make it any less hard to part with the truth, to reveal that she's now a statistic.

It doesn't make the small voice in the back of her mind telling her that there was something she could've done any quieter.

December 12th

She doesn't sleep, and her concentration falters because she doesn't sleep.

Her gun becomes an extension of her hand, present even when she's alone. Especially when she's alone.

The first panic attack comes when she's sitting on the couch, absentmindedly watching some show, and a neighbor slams the door a little too loud. It rattles her own, has her heart in her throat and the gun poised towards the entrance, ready for the intruder she believes to be entering once more.

She's changed the locks, but that's not enough.

Everything closes in, the weight on her chest unbearable. Her eyes dart around, gun unsteady in her right hand as she stumbles into the coffee table and knocks over the glass bowl. Shards of glass cover the floor but she sinks onto it anyway, sliding on her hands until she's pushed back against the wall.

Her breathing doesn't slow, her pulse a jackhammer beneath her skin. Blood trickles down her forearm but she doesn't feel it, not until over an hour later when she slowly comes down and realizes the throbbing on her wrist isn't just from knocking it against the butt of the gun.

She bandages the cut and braces herself against the linoleum of her counter top.

It won't happen again. She'll deal with it. It's okay.

But it's not okay. She's frightened in her own home, jumping at the creaking of floorboards, and disgusted with herself.

December 17th

Alcohol becomes her vice for a few days, before she reminds herself who she is, who her father is, and she finds the strength to dump the vodka down the sink.

She falters once, twice, a few times, but it's temporary. A way to forget for a few hours.

Her appetite wavers before disappearing completely.

She loses weight because she doesn't eat, because this is the only form of control she has over her body.

"You look exhausted," Castle tells her during a lunch break that she does not take.

"Wow, you really know how to woo a girl."

But he doesn't laugh.

"I'm serious, Beckett. I know this case has taken a toll on all of us, but when's the last time you had a good night's sleep?"

"I don't know," she sighs, rubbing at her temples. "Been a while."

There's no point in lying. The bags under her eyes, visible even after her best attempts at cover up, expose her.

"Why don't you head home? Get some rest," he suggests. His eyes are soft, encouraging, almost pleading. "The paperwork will be here in the morning."

When she remains silent, he reaches over, fingers brushing against hers. She forces her hand to stay still, forces herself to breathe. It's just Castle.

"I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine." It's automatic, second nature.

Sliding her hand away then, the sleeve of her jacket rides up. She doesn't think anything of it until there's a soft gasp to her left, until she feels his hand pulling her wrist back before she can even formulate an escape plan.

"Beckett." It's quiet. "What happened?"

Her other hand comes to pull down the sleeve, slowly wrench her arm from Castle's grip. "I cut myself on some broken glass. It's fine." He eyes her. "Really, Castle. I'm okay. I didn't... it's not what it looks like, I promise."

She doesn't tell him that it's the product of a panic attack. Doesn't tell him that she's been assaulted, that when she does sleep it's on the couch because she can't step foot in her bedroom without having a panic attack, that she's slowly losing herself, self-destructing behind closed doors.

He doesn't believe her, she knows, but he relents. "Okay," he breathes, and her chest loosens. "But you'll tell me if you're not?"

Beckett doesn't trust her voice, so she gives him a small nod.

She invests in sleeping pills that night, to assuage Castle's increasing concern and so she can finally get some rest.

They help, eventually, and now she doesn't sleep without them.

January 3rd

Beckett's in her bed, deep in a dreamless sleep, when she wakes to a hand over her mouth, a pressure on her chest. Her eyes rip open, panic immediately rippling through her system as she comes face to face with a bulky man in a black mask.

There's no visible face, only a mouth and two piercing green eyes that burn into her own.

She thrashes beneath his weight, tries to wriggle away but he's stronger, has the advantage of a surprise. She bites down, hard, and once there's no longer a hand over her mouth she screams, demands to know who he is. Her legs kick, and her arms fight against his where he has her pinned.

She freezes when she feels the blade of a knife connect with her neck. It doesn't dig in; no more pressure is added than is needed to serve as a warning. A threat. Her eyes lock with his, but she refuses to show her fear.

He doesn't seem to care.

She can't reach her gun, can't find a way to maneuver away from him, can't push him off.

There's a growled threat, a veiled reference to vengeance but for what she doesn't know. She remains still, any movement on her part adding to the pressure of the knife against her skin.

At the sound of a zipper sliding down she bolts up in bed, sweat covering her skin in a glisten. Her eyes scan the room only to find it empty, that she's alone. She runs a hand through her damp hair and tosses the covers from her body.

There's a banging on her door seconds later and she practically jumps out of her skin, palm coming up to her heart, her pulse erratic. Her gaze shifts to the alarm clock beside her: it's only 10:17pm. She managed to fall asleep around 8:00, pure exhaustion finally taking its toll, and with the help of the pills she's been relying on she was knocked out.

Shuffling across the room, she rubs at her eyes and tugs the fabric of her sweater closer to her body.

The banging starts up again, this time accompanied by the panicked calls of, "Beckett!"

Castle?

She looks through the peephole to confirm, and takes a deep breath, eyes falling shut for a few seconds. Just as she opens the door there's another, "Beckett I know you're—oh, thank god." His fist is balled is mid-knock, and he slowly lowers it.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, still hazy around the edges. Her eyes fall to the bag in his hand. "What's that?"

"Nevermind that, Beckett, are you okay?"

Her brows furrow at the fear etched in the lines of his face. "I'm—yeah," she sighs. Lying is exhausting now, draining what little's left of her energy. "Why?"

She steps aside to open the door wider, invite him in. A part of her wants to send him away, to be alone in the aftermath of this nightmare, but he's come with what looks to be food and she doesn't have the heart to turn away his pained face right now. Once it's double locked, she turns around, follows him to the kitchen counter where he rests the bag.

"You—you were screaming," he says quietly, head tilted. "I picked up some Chinese because I know how much you love it. I know you could use it—" She tightens her arms hold on her body, fingertips brushing against the ridges of her raised ribs beneath the fabric of her shirt. He's telling her that she needs to eat. Nicely, subtly. But she hears it. "—and I feel like I haven't really talked to you in a while, so I thought... hey, Chinese."

He's nervous, she hears it in his voice, sees it in his body language. She's selfishly glad she's not the only one that's not at ease.

"I've been here for almost ten minutes, Beckett, I heard you."

"I don't know what you think you heard, but—"

Castle shakes his head. "No," he cuts her off, the firmness of his voice catching her by surprise. "I know screams when I hear them."

"Castle, it's just..." Her voice trails off, her head falling into her palms, elbows braced on the counter. "It was just a nightmare."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay," he says, moving to pull a few items out of the bag, "then how about we sit down and not talk about it?"

She offers a smile. "Yeah, okay."

Watching as he piles carton upon carton of Chinese into a pile and tries to carry it all over to the couch, she barely manages to stifle a laugh.

"You could've kept it in the bag, brought it all over together."

He pauses inches from the glass table, looks between the bag and his overflowing arms. "I... could have, yes," he nods. "That would have made a lot more sense. Hey, looks like you've got a nest going on here," he says, and she watches him motion towards the mountain of blankets cocooned on the couch.

She scrambles to take a seat in the corner, trying to shove the blankets out of the way. "Fell asleep out here," she tells him.

It's true. He doesn't have to know it was on purpose.

He doesn't respond, just takes a seat beside her and hands out containers of lo mein, wonton soup, and sweet and sour chicken. They eat in silence, Beckett finding herself somewhat content for the first time in a while. Castle starts to tell her funny stories of a young, precocious Alexis. Whether it's to fill the silence or because he senses she needs a good laugh, she's unsure.

But she's grateful.

For a while, she forgets the nightmare, just focuses on the here and now.

She finishes her soup and lo mein, which is more than she's eaten in days, much to her own surprise. She pushes her box of sweet and sour chicken to the side; she'll put it in the fridge for sometime later. Maybe she'll even eat it.

"Beckett?"

"Hmm?"

A pause. "Can I ask you something?"

Her heart jumps, but she just huffs. "Has that ever stopped you before?"

"Well, no," he admits.

But he's still silent, and she turns to face him, realizes he's still looking for approval. That's… different. And so she nods, hesitant of what he'll ask.

"Why are you sleeping on your couch?"

Mouth open in a surprised o, she struggles for a second before composing herself. "I'm not. I told you, I fell asleep."

"You are."

He twists his head, nods towards the floor on the other side of the couch. She follows his gaze to the pile of extra blankets, her clothes in a basket, alarm clock on the table, and—

Shit.

Her gun. Her gun is barely peeking out from one beneath the blanket she'd tossed over there. She hopes he doesn't notice it, but the longer he stares the better his chances are and she's just about to say something, take his attention elsewhere, when he cocks his head and she knows he's seen it.

"Beckett..." Her name is a whisper on his lips and panic curls itself around her ribs. "Why is your gun out here?"

"I..." She doesn't have an answer. For once, she has no plausible excuse to give him, nothing but the truth and she can't spit it out. "It's nothing."

Reaching over, he grabs it from under the blanket, carefully, and holds it for a second.

"The safety's off," he breathes, wide eyes trained on her, and… what? It's not, is it? She doesn't remember taking it off, but maybe after—oh, no. "Why is the safety off? Beckett, please, talk to me."

No, he's too close.

"I can't," she chokes, screwing her eyes shut. She sees those eyes, green, cat-like. They stare back at her and she squeezes them tighter, tries to change the picture, but they remain.

A hand brushes at her shoulder and she flinches, body shifting away quickly. When her eyes open, Castle's eyes are trained on her, wide and filled with more concern than she's seen the past few weeks.

She gave herself away. He knows something, it's written on his face, in the way his hand comes to rest near his mouth.

She can feel the anxiety creeping back, the room closing in, and her breathing quickens.

"Beckett," he whispers, and it's the softness of his voice that threatens to undo her. "Hey, breathe, you're okay."

After a minute she nods, taking a deep breath. She opens her eyes once more and chances a glance towards him. His face is twisted, but she can see the gears turning.

"Will you get mad at me if I ask you something?"

He speaks so quietly she's not sure she'd have heard him if there were any other noise in her apartment.

She finally shakes her head, gathers her voice. "No."

Castle takes a breath and she watches him wring his hands in his lap, watches the way his face fills with anticipation, worry, fear.

"I don't... I really don't want to be right about this," he breathes, paces himself. His eyes avoid hers, and she's thankful. "But you're—you flinch when someone touches you, and you've been so distant for the past few weeks that I—I assumed you were working through something but… you're losing weight, you're having nightmares, you're sleeping on your couch with your gun..."

Hearing him recount it all, hearing everything she's been doing out loud, it's a lot. She's been pushing it all away, to the back of her mind as something to deal with later, never now.

She knows he's put it together now, recognizes it in the pained expression on his face, the dull grey of his eyes when he peeks over at her.

"Beckett, are you... did someone—were you—"

He's uncomfortable, doesn't want to say it. Neither does she. Saying it out loud makes it more real somehow. So she saves both of them the trouble and sucks in a deep breath, lets her eyes fall closed, and gives a slow nod. She doesn't see his face, can't bear to look into his eyes now that he knows, but she hears the intake of breath, the small gasp that escapes his throat.

She waits for the pity, the questions, the disgust that greets so many women in her position, but it doesn't come.

Instead there's silence, and Beckett forces herself to turn towards him, to see if he's still even here.

He is, of course. He's beside her, gaze trained on what was her profile, eyes welled up with tears. It's—unexpected, catches her off guard.

"I'm," he starts, clearing his voice, "can I—can I hug you, please?"

The question surprises her, though she knows it shouldn't. This is Castle; for all his faults, the care and compassion he holds is not one of them. Him asking, looking for permission to initiate any contact, almost brings tears to her eyes.

She shoots him a thin smile. "Yeah, Castle, you can hug me."

He scoots closer at her invitation, stops only when they're hip to hip and wraps his arms around her, his face buried in the crook of her neck. She twists into his embrace, her arms wrapped around his back and her face against his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs into her hair. "I know it's a useless sentiment, but I am." Not trusting her voice, she nods against him in response. The tears she's been fighting off for days make their way to the surface, prickle at the backs of her eyes. "You're so strong, Beckett."

She gives a watery chuckle. "Doesn't feel like it," she mumbles into his shirt, silent tears marking the fabric.

He pulls away, just far enough to look her in the eyes. "No," he says firmly. "You are. I just wish you knew you don't always have to be the strong one. You don't have to do this alone."

"It's my baggage, Castle. It's too heavy."

"So let me carry some of it," he says easily, coaxing her eyes up to his. "I may not be a body builder, but I've got enough upper body strength to front some of the weight."

"You don't—"

"Partners," he interrupts. "We're partners, but above that we're friends, right? You don't have to go through this on your own. If you'll let me, I just want to be here for you. I'll be whatever you need me to, okay? Someone to listen, a shoulder to cry on, a hit man to take out the bastard that—"

"As sweet as that is, I'd rather you not go to prison on my behalf."

"I would."

Her eyes soften, another tear falling down her cheek. "I know you would." He holds her gaze. "But... okay," she breathes. "All I can do is try."

"That's all I'd ever ask for," he assures her, pulling her back in for a hug. "Did you... you know, report it?"

She exhales. "Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Didn't see much of his face though. He had a mask on. A knife."

"Jesus, Beckett," he sighs, his grip tightening.

"You know... sometimes, I can't stop thinking about it," she admits quietly, eyes falling shut. His hand rubs calming, encouraging circles on her back. "When I go to sleep, when I close my eyes, it's like it's happening all over again. And there's still nothing... I should've been able to stop it, I should've—"

"No. Don't. This is not on you," he says firmly. "He had a knife, Beckett. You did what you had to and you survived. No one can or should fault you for that, especially not yourself."

Blowing out a breath, her eyes remain downcast, her bottom lip worried between her teeth, but she says nothing. She knows he's right, she does.

"You don't have to tell me anything, you know. Just letting me in like this, that's more than enough."

Slowly prying herself out of his arms, she nods. "I know. And I'm not ready to really talk about it, but one day, when I am, I'd like you to be there."

"Of course. I'll be right here." He presses a soft kiss to her temple. "Can I ask you one more thing?"

Biting at the inside of her cheek, she looks down at her hands. "Go ahead."

"Is that why you've been sleeping on your couch? Did it..."

Nodding, her tongue darts out to wet her dry lips. "Yeah."

"Oh, Kate," he breathes. "Have you been sleeping at all?"

She lets out a humorless laugh. "Some. Not great. The sleeping pills help."

"You should try to get some sleep, then," he says, moving to stand. He doesn't comment on her dependency of sleeping pills to even attempt a decent night's sleep, and she finds herself oddly relieved. "I'll clean this up."

Watching as he grabs the empty Chinese containers, her eyes follow his movements. He brings them to the trash, stuffing the cartons that still have food into the fridge for later. It's when he starts washing the dishes she's let pile up, that she hasn't had the energy to do, that she gets up, wanders behind him and puts a hand on his forearm to stall him.

"Castle, you don't have to do my dishes," she says, trying to grab the sponge from his grip. "Really, it's fine."

"I know I don't have to, but it's just something small I can do. One less thing you have to worry about, okay?" His eyes find hers and she almost has to look away, can't deal with the sincerity that looks back at her. "Now go, tuck yourself into the couch and I'll bring over some tea."

She purses her lips, crosses her arms in an attempt to change his mind but it's useless. He's not backing down, just raises a brow at her and nods towards the living room, and then continues his scrubbing of a plate.

Sighing, she relents, makes her way back to the nest of blankets she's created for herself. When Castle finishes, he brings her the tea as promised and places it on the table in front of where she's cocooned beneath her comforters.

"Thanks, Castle," she says. "The keys are on the counter if you could just lock up when you go."

"I uh—I was actually going to stay here," he murmurs, hope and apprehension shining back at her. "If that's okay, if that wouldn't make you uncomfortable, of course."

Part of her wants to tell him no, to politely ask him to leave and tell him that she wants to be alone. But looking at him right now, she realizes he needs this. And maybe she does, too. Maybe having him around will make her feel better, safer, just as him staying the night will assure him that she's safe.

"Okay," she decides.

His face lights up at her acceptance and she feels a little lighter, a little less weighed down. He makes his way to the other side of the couch and grabs a handful of extra blankets from the pile she's made, laying them out beside the couch to make himself a makeshift bed.

"Sweet dreams, Beckett."

She can only hope.

January 4th

Beckett wakes once, around 4:00, to gentle murmurs and the sensation of her hair being pushed back away from her forehead.

"It's okay," she hears, the voice warm and rich. "You're okay, Kate. You're safe."

She clings to it, to the sound of his voice.

"It's just a dream. Hey, I'm here, you're okay."

Just a dream.

Her eyes peel open, a thin layer of sweat covering her skin. Castle's looking back at her, a soft smile on his face as his fingers continue to thread through her hair.

"Hey," he whispers.

"Hi. Sorry," she says, raking a hand down her face. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." Her brows furrow. "I didn't—I felt better staying up." To make sure you're okay.

He doesn't say it, but she hears it lingering in the air.

She manages to fall back asleep, the knowledge that he's on the floor next to her keeping her content.

It's almost 9:30 when she wakes again, those five and a half hours of uninterrupted sleep the longest she's gotten in too long. A small smile creeps onto her face, knowing she has Castle to thank for his silent support.

Speaking of... where is Castle?

She leans over to peer at what was his blanket bed, but it's no longer there. The blankets are folded neatly and piled back where they were before he'd grabbed them, and she searches her surroundings but catches no sight of him.

She's about to think he's gone home, maybe he left a note on the counter, when she hears his voice. Coming from—the hallway? Is he in her room?

Standing from the couch, she pulls her shirt closer to her body as she follows the sound.

"Okay, yes," she hears him say into his phone. Taking a few more steps, she comes to a halt in her door frame. "Thank you so much for your help on such short notice. I really owe you one."

"Castle?"

He hangs up and turns to her. "Oh, Beckett, you're up. How are you feeling?"

"Okay. Well rested." She doesn't miss the crack of his smile. "What are you—"

And then she sees it.

"Castle," she breathes. "Is that..."

He nods, joy and nerves written on his face. "Yeah. I could bear thinking of you having to live with that in here anymore, and I thought maybe you wouldn't mind if I just—"

A new bed. He got her a new bed. It's not just the mattress either, no, he's gotten rid of her entire bed frame and replaced it with another. Completely different, bearing no resemblance to her old one.

Tears spring to her eyes, the thoughtfulness completely overwhelming her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Castle, no." This sweet, sweet man. She takes a few steps and wraps her arms around him. "Thank you. So much," she whispers. "This is... it was really thoughtful of you."

"Hopefully now you can get some rest in your own bed."

Yeah, maybe she can.

January 8th

She tells Lanie, who cries on her shoulder. It's the first time she says it out loud, the first time she uses the word rape in relation to herself. She wonders how no one's found out beforehand, and Beckett explains how she reported it to a friend in another precinct, someone she trusted not to spread the information before she was ready.

The boys take it hard, immediately berating themselves for not noticing sooner. But she's always been good at hiding, at holding her issues deep inside and not letting them out. It's on her, not them.

Javi looks like he's going to punch someone, and she calms him down with a grounding hand on his shoulder. She tells him that she's okay and he tells her he'll kill the man.

Ryan's quieter but no less angry, and he offers her low reassurances.

They're her brothers, and she feels lighter now that they know. They have her back and she knows if this goes any further, if she ever has to sit in a court room, they'll be right beside her, likely staring down the masked man until he withers away completely.

They ask if she knows who it was and she has to tell them no, that she has no idea who the man was or how he got into her apartment. She assumes it has to do with a case, but with no clues as to what one or a time frame, it's essentially useless.

Castle stays close, and she can tell he's trying not to hover. It's sweet, a little overbearing sometimes but a nice gesture of solidarity, and she offers him a real smile.

January 12th

She talks to someone, decides that she can either move forward or continue to wallow in the dark.

Her therapist is a woman named Allison who's patient with her, who lets her speak at her own pace, even if that means sitting in silence for an hour. Little by little she begins to open up, and she feels herself more at ease going through her day to day routine without a weight on her chest, on her mind.

She's told she has PTSD, and she's given anxiety medication to quell the effects.

It's a slow process, one that will take time, but it's a start.

February 5th

She gets a night's rest for the first time without the help of pills. The hall light remains on, but she manages to fall asleep on her own in the bed Castle bought for her. She rearranges her room a little, tries to give herself a change of scenery, and it helps.

The locks are still compulsively checked and double checked, her gun is still by her side but now it lies in the drawer, not under her pillow.

Castle calls some nights, just to check in on her, and she answers.

February 19th

"Hey." Castle sidles up to her side just as she's wiping down the murder board. "Tough case, huh?"

"You can say that again."

He bumps her shoulder. "Got him though."

Beckett nods. "We did."

It took four days to even get a solid suspect in the murder of two women, but he slipped up and they caught him on a technicality. It's not how she wants to close all of her cases, but if it means this guy is behind bars then she'll take it.

"We're gonna head over to The Old Haunt for drink," Javi calls over to them from his desk. "I think we all deserve one after this."

Ryan nods furiously beside him, grabbing his jacket. "Absolutely."

"You in, Beckett?"

She tosses them both a smile, but shakes her head. "I think I'll sit this one out," she says. "Have one for me."

"Will do," Ryan salutes. "What about you, Castle?"

"Next time?"

The boys give them a knowing look but don't say anything, just nod, calling out farewells over their shoulders as they shuffle towards the elevator.

"You could've gone," Beckett says, placing the eraser back on the bottom ledge.

Castle just shrugs. "I know. And I will, after the next case. You feeling alright?"

"Hmm? What? Oh, yeah. Just tired, that's all."

"Kate..."

"Really," she promises, locking her gaze. "It's been a long week, haven't been getting much sleep."

She puts the murder board stuff away and returns to her desk, pushing the pile of paperwork she's already finished off to the side. Castle follows her, stays at her side near his chair. He looks around, as if checking to see if anyone's within earshot.

"How are the nightmares?"

Sighing, she tucks her hair behind her ear. "Okay. Becoming less frequent," she admits. They won't go away all at once, or even at all, but even having one less nightmare a week is counted as progress.

"Good," he grins, joy shining through. "I really am proud of you, Beckett."

"I didn't do anything."

"You did," he argues. "You decided to keep moving forward, despite everything pushing back against you. And now you'll continue to come out on top. That's something."

The faith he has in her has her heart swelling, pressing against the cage of her ribs. He's been here, right beside her, since she's told him and even before that, and she's not sure she'll ever be able to thank him properly.

She hopes to be able to, though, one day.

"Thanks, Castle," she smiles. "For… all of this, everything. I know it hasn't been easy, especially sometimes—" When she has a panic attack in his presence, when he sits with her until it runs its course and she's able to breathe again. "—but I hope you know it means a lot to me."

His hand reaches over to squeeze hers, shaking his head. "No thanks necessary. I would, and will, if needed, do it all over again."

"Let's hope it's fewer and far between, but…" she trails off, but he gets it.

Because she is doing better, she has her fingers crossed that those kinds of episodes will be kept at bay. She's not the same as she was before; there's this weird division now—the before, the after.

The after is slowly making her way back, climbing out of the hole she's been left in, but it's a work in process. The medication for anxiety helps, though some moments do pass through the cracks. The PTSD still hides in the shadowy recesses of her mind, still pokes its head out when she least expects it.

When Castle or one of the boys grab her arm to gently catch her attention and she jumps, when a dark shadow moves a little too quickly across the wall in the middle of the night, when she's alone in the apartment and someone slams their door a little too loud.

"What do you say we go get some dinner, huh? Celebrate closing the case and well, you," Castle says, breaking her out of her thoughts.

She laughs. "I'm not sure we've reached the celebration mark yet, Castle."

"No progress is too small, Beckett," he says seriously. "So, Italian?"

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, her head shaking at the hopeful look on his face. "Italian," she concedes. "But I'm paying."

"What? No, Beckett—"

"You paid the last four times."

"So?"

"So, I'm paying."

He grumbles as he follows her across the bullpen and she barely hides her eye roll. Once they're in the elevator, the door sliding shut, Castle turns to her, his eyes clear and soft.

"I care about you a lot, Kate," he whispers, as if he's telling her a deep dark secret. "I know you're not completely alright right now, but that's okay, and I know without a doubt that you'll be okay. I'm just—if that day comes when you feel comfortable talking about what happened, I'll be right here."

A soft smile curls the corners of her lips and she pushes off the wall, presses a chaste kiss to his cheek. "I know," she breathes.

The elevator dings and she steps out, reaching behind her until he puts his hand in hers.

Everything's not better, she's not where she needs herself to be, but right now, in this moment, she's exactly where she should be.

A/N: Brought on by a tumblr ask (from about a year ago) that asked me to write something with this premise. This is very much a sensitive topic for many people, myself included. The main purpose of this isn't to focus on the act itself, but instead the aftermath and the healing process. It's not tied together with a bow at the end because, generally, that's not how it works—it takes time, patience, support, and some faltering along the way.

I'd also like to say that this is in no way meant to be a representative of all survivors/situations. Everyone copes and deals differently, and this is merely one way I thought might be fitting. I know there are some with the misconception that rape happens only to certain types of people, that may think Beckett wouldn't "get herself" into a situation like this, but please know it can happen to anyone. Big, small. Weak, strong. Old, young.

Finally, to anyone reading who is a survivor themselves: I admire you, I support you, and I am with you.