Chapter 1

"Castle, I'm really tired right now."

"Of course." He took a couple of steps towards the door. "Of course. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Do you mind if we don't?"

He jerked to a halt, already falling into the abyss of loss.

"I just need a little bit of time," she said, pleading. It was as well he hadn't confessed. He didn't think he could take this conversation if he'd said everything he'd ducked away from. He forced a smile.

"Sure. Sure. How much time?"

"I'll call you, okay?"

"Sure."

He headed to the door, giving her one last look as he left. She shut her eyes.

As Castle exited, Josh was still there, lurking malevolently outside the door as if he were waiting to pounce on Castle's departure. He didn't look protective at all: more…menacing. Threatening. And in some strange way, as if he wanted to block Beckett from Castle. From…anyone. As soon as Castle had fully exited, Josh skulked back inside.

Wrong it might be, but Castle waited outside the door, unsure why. Eavesdropping was wrong, he knew. Very wrong, but his senses were telling him something was askew. Josh had looked more than usually angry with his presence, his interruption. He listened carefully.

"How long am I going to have to put up with this, Kate?"

"What?"

"That idiot popping up everywhere you go. Following you around like a lost soul. He's got no right" –

"What do you mean?" Beckett's voice was glacial, but Castle could hear the stress fractures of her pain through the ice: crevasses beneath her snow-queen armour.

"He got you shot."

"No. The sniper got me shot." A dragged in breath of infinite pain.

"Not the point. I'm your boyfriend. Not him. I don't want him hanging round you all the time."

Castle listened much harder. Hadn't Doctor Josh Davidson, supposedly intelligent and all round hero, worked out that giving Beckett ultimatums would have much the same effect as lighting a short fuse? God knew, he'd tried it often enough and failed.

"And if I do?" His heart bounded – then fell. She didn't want to talk tomorrow. She wanted time. She'd call him.

"It's him or me, Kate. I'm not into threesomes or other men muscling in on my girl."

There was a heavy pause. "It's not you, then. You don't get to tell me what I do or who I see. So go."

Castle thought that Josh hadn't expected that, from the quality of the thick rage leaking round the door. He hadn't expected that. Not in those final, heavy, hurting tones.

"You'd rather have him? A page six playboy who's playing at being a cop?"

"Go away, Josh."

"No. Answer me. You owe me that."

"I don't owe you anything. If you can think that – if you think that now, when I'm still hooked up to the monitors in a hospital bed, is the right time to have this discussion because I can't walk away and have to lie here half-dead and listen to you – if you think that, then I was right. Leave. You don't own me. You never did and you never will and I'm tired of you trying to force a choice between you and everyone else. Not just Castle, but everyone. It's not him or you, it's everyone or you. So it's not you. Leave."

Castle could hear the ragged breaths and exhaustion as she finished. She'd used up all her feeble strength in shoving Josh out. Breaking up with him. If only… if only she'd said that she wanted Castle instead. But she hadn't. She hadn't said anything.

"I see," Josh gritted out. "You were just never that into me."

"Neither were you, Josh. Neither were you."

Castle stepped back just in time to avoid having his nose broken when Josh slammed through it and bounced the swing door off the wall. Fortunately, he didn't see Castle there. Another fight would be exactly not what Beckett needed. Indecisively, Castle looked from the door to Beckett's room to the exit corridor, back and forth, back and forth. He peeked through the glass to the small private room, but her head was turned away, towards the heart monitor tracing the regular beat. One, two, three, spike; one, two, three, spike… over and over again.

Finally, he made his decision, and swung the door to her room open. Short, shallow breaths shifted the air around, barely enough to hear. He walked around to arrive on the side her head was facing, but her eyes were shut and she hadn't moved at all as he came in. His flowers were still on her nightstand, along with all the others. Some kind nurse must have arranged them: she – couldn't. Could only sit up with the help of the mechanism in the bed, and plenty of pillows; could barely raise a smile for her visitors.

Everyone had visited, but Beckett wasn't saying much. Her father… that had been the worst. He had been there for the surgery; had to separate Josh and Castle from a free fight in the waiting room – Castle wasn't proud of that, but he also wasn't going to stand there and take it – waiting to hear if he'd lost his daughter to the same issue which had murdered his wife. Jim Beckett; so small, crumpled and indefinably old; grieving before he even knew the outcome. Jim, an intelligent man, must surely have known that there would be a very long road ahead. No-one was giving any assurance of the outcome. Beckett's brain might be undamaged, but physically – that might yet be a very different story. The bullet had nicked her heart, ripped right through her, and that damage would take a long, painful time to heal.

He stood there, silhouetted against the window and the fading light of the early evening sun, watching over her, and then sat down to wait.

"You're still here. I thought… I said I'd call you."

Her words hurt him; pierced his carapace of calm. "Yeah. But it sounded like you wouldn't," he said bluntly. "So before I go, answer me just one thing. How much do you really remember?"

The scraped gasp recalled him to sense. His gaze dropped to her face: whiter than an instant before, lips pinched, eyes… agonised.

"I see," he said heavily. "You remember enough."

"You… don't see anything," she forced out. "You have no idea what you're asking."

"So tell me," he demanded. "Tell me why you're pushing me away."

"Because I can't do it with you here." He was still digesting the pain of that strike when she gathered breath to continue. "You'll want to do everything for me and I can't cope with that. I'll let – I won't be strong enough to stop you and every time something hurts so will you and I can't watch that. You have to let me do it myself and you won't. You can't."

Her words stopped his protestations cold. He knew that, in the end, she was right. He knew her inside out, but so did she know him, and she knew deep in her bones that he wouldn't, couldn't, watch her in pain. He reached for her hand, and her fingers curled weakly around his.

"See?" she said. "That's all I can manage." Her eyes closed, a crease of pain across her brow, and he brought his other hand around hers.

"It's enough. I get it. I hate it, but I get it." He conjured up a thin, washed out smile. "I would, you know."

"But I wouldn't heal, if you did. Let it be. Let me get better. I have to do it myself." A feeble facsimile of a smile ghosted her lips. "When they unplug me, I'm going up to our cabin with Dad. He… knows not to fuss."

Castle winced, and squeezed inadvertently. Her eyes opened again. "It's quiet. I need the peace. Manhattan's so loud…"

He watched her face contort. "But… I get you need some space… but… will you call?" He hated how needy he sounded, how her expression closed down.

"I…" she turned away again. "I don't know if I can. Without… look, would you promise you won't come if I do? Just talk, and not try to arrive on the doorstep whatever I say?"

He made a small, unplanned whine of distress.

"I have to hold myself up." She swallowed hard. "I remember what you said. I just… have to be strong enough to give it back, and I'm" – another gulp – "I'm not."

His heart cracked.

"You have to be strong enough to let me be strong enough," and tears sneaked out from the corners of her eyes as his heart was made anew.

"It's enough," he said, more definite now with her words to cling to. "Beckett… Kate…. It's enough for now." He raised their still-linked hands to his lips and kissed her fingers lightly. Her eyes had closed again. "Call when you're ready. I promise… it'll be enough."

He sat there, holding her hand as she slept, for a long, long time.

"Are you sure about this, Katie?" Jim asked for the sixth time. "Wouldn't you rather stay here?"

"No," she scraped out. "I'm sick of the hospital."

"Maybe if you'd let people visit a bit more often you'd have been less bored."

"I told you, I needed some quiet time. They understood. Anyway, I wasn't bored, I was asleep pretty much the whole time."

Jim gave up on that subject. "So did you tell them you were going up to the cabin to rest?"

"Yep."

He supposed that was an improvement on his imaginings. He could just see Katie disappearing off without a single word to anyone, which wouldn't help at all. Bad enough that he'd had to see her hooked up to all the machines, IV lines, transfusions – he rammed the memory down. He had to stay away from the memories… but it was getting harder, not easier. Her friends knew where she was, and what she was doing. She wasn't doing this wholly alone.

Not like him.

Beckett settled back in the passenger seat and let the interstate flow by her unfocused gaze. The boys hadn't been wholly impressed that she was going off to the middle of nowhere – as they had described it, despite her protestations that it was only a half-hour from Roscoe and that Roscoe had everything she'd need – coffee, groceries, gas – and Lanie had been pretty vocal, but in the end everyone had accepted her decision.

Just as well, really. She'd ripped her guts out trying to explain to Castle, and she surely hadn't deserved his understanding, but it meant more to her than he could know or she could say that he would let her do this herself: let her try to be more, stronger before…

She remembered, and when the pain had pierced her, when the nightmares had come, when it had threatened to be too much… she held his words to her damaged heart and let them heal her. She'd make herself strong enough for him, and he knew that she would. It was enough, for now. It had to be, because otherwise, she'd drown in his overwhelming emotions.

For the moment, she'd rely on her father: she could trust him not to overwhelm her. He knew well enough what she was like – after all, he'd had thirty-two years of it to learn. Company, without trying to suffocate her. Besides which, he'd had a pretty nasty scare too, and maybe time together would let them get past it together. Just the Becketts, getting better together, just as they had seven years ago.

"I'm really glad you could do this, Dad," she said.

"You're my daughter, Katie. Of course I can do this for you."

He could. Of course he could. He concentrated on the road and the idiocy of some wannabe NASCAR racer cutting him up, and the gnawing need receded. It didn't return.

They pulled up at the cabin, and Beckett's breath came easier as soon as she eased out of the car.

"That's better," she smiled. "Clean air. Just what my lungs need. Shall we?" She turned in the direction of the trunk, and her father tutted at her reprovingly.

"You're not to carry anything," Jim chided her. "You know that. No physical exertion. Just behave yourself and go inside like a good girl. I can see you leaning on the car."

Katie stuck the tip of her tongue out as she would have done aged six. Jim snickered. "Okay," she growled, but Jim, watching, could see her steps were unsure, and her pace was far removed from her usual brisk stride. Behind her, he shuddered. It had been so close, so very, very close…

But she was still here. His Katie. Still alive.

He pulled the bags out of the trunk and followed his resurrected daughter inside.

Beckett sat down on the couch. The journey had taken more out of her than she'd expected, and she was tired. She wanted to help her father put the bags away, but something about the tightness around his eyes made her stop. That, and that she wasn't sure she actually could stand up quite yet. It would be better if she just took a short rest and didn't try to overdo it. Her exercises and the physical therapy schedule didn't cover baggage handling duties.

"You okay there, Katie?"

"Yeah. Just give me a minute. I never thought watching someone else drive could be so tiring."

Jim frowned at her. "You don't get to drive for another two weeks, remember? So you'd better get used to it."

"Ugh." Her mind wandered off. "What about food?"

"There's enough in the freezer for tonight. If you're up to it, we'll go to Roscoe tomorrow and stock up."

"Okay. So what's for dinner?"

"Fish." Beckett made a face at her father. "Don't look like that. It's all gutted and cleaned already. And don't think you're helping, either. You just stay sitting down and rest."

Please, Katie, rest, Jim thought. Don't overdo it. I can't stop you, and I can't deal with a relapse. He turned to the freezer and started to remove fillets of fish and some frozen vegetables. Katie, amazingly, did exactly what he'd asked. It wasn't entirely reassuring.

Nor was it reassuring when she pleaded exhaustion – which was no word of a lie – after dinner, and struggled upstairs to her room. He heard the small sounds of preparation for sleep, and then nothing through the long evening. He tried to read. It wasn't wholly successful, and his broken sleep was anything but restful, punctuated by nightmares. Each time he woke, he listened, as he had done when she was a new-born: listened to make sure she still drew breath.

She had so nearly never drawn breath again.

Beckett woke late: far later than she'd intended and certainly later than she thought her father would appreciate. She creaked carefully through a shower and changing her dressing: the long slice down her ribs less raw than a week before; the knot between her breasts still livid and raised. For all that, she was alive, if not yet well. She would be, though. The clean air of Cherry Ridge Wild Forest seeped into her, the aroma of the forest around the cabin fresh, and faintly she could hear the river running through behind the house. It was summer, and she could sit on the porch and relax, read, talk to her dad.

First, though, she wanted some breakfast. Coffee – that too, but she had been told to limit it to one cup a day, so she could have it at breakfast or later. She opted for breakfast. When she cautiously came downstairs, she caught a flash of terror on her father's face.

"It's okay," she tried to reassure him. "I just need to be careful. The physical therapist said I was to take it easy and not do anything quickly."

"Okay. Sure."

She wished her father looked more convinced than he did. She was being good, for heaven's sake. Doing what she'd been told. She knew she couldn't go headlong at this: she had one single, broad, blue-eyed reason to get better, and she was going to do it. Dive right in. Just as soon as she was better. So she was going to do it properly, no matter how much she wanted to push herself harder, hide her pain, pretend it was all fine. She needed to do this properly so that she'd be strong enough. She had to be strong enough.

But still, she wished that her father wasn't looking at her in that terrified, agonised way, as if every step she took jarred him as much as it did her.

Back in Manhattan, in a large loft on Broome Street, Castle stared at the message on his phone. Gone to the cabin with Dad. She had told him she would go. And she had gone. But she had told him first, before she went. Another brief text, a couple of days ago. It was still on his phone, of course. He couldn't delete it: it was all he had to go with the memories. I remember. You have to let me be strong enough.

He held her words close to his heart and hoped. He would never have believed that it was so hard simply to give Kate Beckett what she needed from him. But then, he'd never seen her bleeding out and broken before him. Never watched her die, and then live again through sheer self-will.

She should have died there. And now she had asked him for something: one thing. Let me be strong enough.

He could do that. If she could not die, then he could let her be strong enough, and not go running after her to shield her from every breath of wind, every cloud or drop of rain.

She would be safe with her father, who – she had said so – knew not to fuss.

And when she finally called, he wouldn't need to go running. He could do this. Because she remembered and she'd told him so. Because she wanted to be strong enough to give it back to him.

For that, he could be strong enough to let her be.

As always, thank you to all readers and reviewers.

22 chapters. Posting on the usual Sun/Tue/Thu schedule. However, some of you may remember I had eye surgery a while ago. It's time for the other eye to be mended (very standard op, no worries) and that is on Tuesday. I may not feel clear-headed enough to post, but I shall certainly post on Thursday.

In more positive news, thanks to everyone who has read my original novel. If you didn't, you are strongly encouraged to get it :) Death in Focus, by SR Garrae, available from Amazon. Have a peek! #shamelessselfpromotion.