Author's Note: This is kind of dark, although we get some fluffy goodness toward the end. I do have more planned for this, so if it seems a little cliff hanger-y don't panic! There will be more to come. Let me know what you think ...

Spoilers: None. We'll just say this is set sometime in season four, but I didn't have a certain timeline in mind when I wrote it.

Disclaimer: Not only are they not mine, I'm okay with not owning them. Because AM is a freaking genius and his team of writers are making freakin magic on the screen. I am content.

Kate had always believed herself to be a strong woman.

The years since her mother's death had been hard on her – she would never try to deny that – but she also knew that the tragedy had helped cement her into the mold of the resilient person that she was. Had she been given a choice, Kate never would have chosen that particular lesson, but it was one that she had learned anyway: the lesson of just how much the human spirit could withstand. She had thought about it often since then, the mystery of how a person's spirit could bear such crushing blows without crumbling in on itself. She'd never truly appreciated what it was that made people pick themselves up off the ground and continue on when the world would not blame them for simply laying down and giving up.

When her mother had been taken from them, she'd thought she had come to understand. After all, isn't that what she had done? Chosen to trudge ahead, immersed herself in her anger and dedicated her life to finding the man who was responsible? She had found a new reason to survive just when she thought that there wasn't one. She had found solace in being a police officer, even been determined to make Detective; she had found another float to keep her treading water for just a little longer while all around her the world seemed to fade away. Her father had been lost in a bottle, and for a time Kate had had half a mind to join him there.

The Academy changed all of that. The Academy gave her a weapon with which to fight back; it gave her a reason to keep going. She had found her strength then, and later when she thought about it she wondered if maybe the heartbroken people of the world continued on simply because they were, like her, just too stubborn to give in.

Strength. Such a simple word, layered with so much meaning. Strength of character, strength of conviction, strength of belief … so many uses for such a small word. A fickle word.

Her mother had been strong, for whatever good it had done her in the end.

Her father had been strong, although that didn't keep him out of the bottle.

Kate had thought … she had thought, erringly, that she was strong. She had thought that, of all the character traits that she could claim for herself, strength was her best and most hard won of them all.

She had been wrong.

Katherine Beckett was not made of iron. She was not thick cut steel, tempered in the fires of loss and grief and anger.

She was weak, and broken. She was crumbling, all the towers and fortresses of her heart collapsing in on themselves with every breath that she took.

There was no strength in the world; there was no soul on Earth that could withstand the steady onslaught of life's cruelties. They were all bound to fail, she saw that now – every person who fancied themselves a warrior would soon discover that they were nothing more than a tin soldier, facing a horde of ravenous demons with nothing more than a wooden sword to protect themselves with.

Everyone broke. Some sooner than others, some with shouts and screams of protest and others without so much as a sigh, but sooner or later they all found themselves battered and thrown upon the rocks of unfairness and injustice. The tidal wave would come for them all, eventually.

She wanted to sob. She wanted to cry out and pound her fists against the wall and rage against the harsh reality that had come to stare her in the face.

She wanted to fight.

Instead, she ordered another drink.

The bartender gave her a funny look when she called for another Vodka Tonic, but she ignored him and finished off the glass that she had been holding. She tried to take a mentally tally of how many she'd finished, but she wasn't sure if that had been her fifth or her sixth. Not that she cared, it could have been her tenth and she would still have ordered another.

She took after her father in more ways than one, really: Kate had always been able to hold her liquor.

Another glass appeared in front of her then, but she didn't even bother to lift her head from her hand as she slipped a ten dollar bill to the bartender. She just picked up the glass and took a long pull, relishing the burn of the Vodka as it tracked down her throat.

Kate ran a hand through her hair, readjusted herself on the bar stool, and glanced sidelong down the bar. She had picked a little dive not far from her apartment, although she couldn't recall now what the hell the place was called. She didn't care – for all she knew, this place was purgatory and the Devil himself would soon walk through the door to torture them with their sins.

She snorted derisively at that thought. She had never been a particularly religious person, and the image of the Devil that she conjured up was more like an overly large Satyr than something to be afraid of. Besides, she was already in Purgatory, if such a place even really existed.

If there was a God – and she truly doubted at this point that such a being even existed – if there was a God then he had given her over to the Devil years ago, and he had started torturing her a long time ago. Starting with the death of her mother.

Kate shook her head and took another gulp of her drink. She was too angry to start debating theology, even with herself. The fact was, she didn't care about any of that. Now if only she could find a way to make herself not care about anything.

She needed to find a way to stop the beating, bleeding thing in her chest that she had once called a heart.

The sharp prick of tears stung her eyes, so she took a deep breath and counted to ten before releasing it again. She was absolutely irate, and tears would only incite her anger further. If she cried now, then she really just might lose what little grip she had left and start tearing at her hair like a crazy woman. She might just stand up and smash her glass against the far wall and start screaming about … well, anything really.

She downed the contents of her glass and called for another.

Kate wondered if this was it. She wondered if this was that last blow, the one that would leave her unhinged and unable to set her world to rights again. She thought of that old turn of phrase "The straw that broke the camel's back" – well, instead of straws she had been dealt stones, and she was fairly certain that her camel had broken a long time ago. The blows kept coming though, didn't they?

"Miss?"

She glanced away from the ring on the counter that she had been tracing with her eyes. The bartender was young, probably younger than her even, and the look on his face was one part concern and one part consternation.

"Is there someone I can call for you?" He offered, sliding a new drink toward her

"I'm fine," She managed, but her voice sounded hollow in her ears

"That's your eighth Vodka Tonic in two hours," He answered, and she felt mild surprise at the number, "And your last."

She had opened her mouth to argue, but the words died on her tongue. What did she think she was going to say? "Excuse me, pup, but I'm trying to drown myself in alcohol so if you could please step back and mind your own business?" Right. Like that was a good idea.

"How about a taxi?" She said instead

The pup of a bartender nodded and moved away to make the phone call. Kate clenched her jaw against another wave of pain wrapped in sheets of icy daggers of anger. She couldn't stop long enough to let her thoughts catch up to her, because if she did then she would surely be lost. The storm was closing in on her, she could feel it building all around her, feel it gaining momentum in her breast, and if she so much as stopped to look back then it would overwhelm her. The wave would crest above her, and she would succumb.

She would give up. All that false strength she had once claimed to possess would leave her in an instant.

"Miss?"

The pup was back.

"Hmm?" She hummed

"Your taxi is outside."

"Thanks."

She quaffed the contents of her glass in one big swig, which left the pup bartender looking at her as if she'd just sprouted eight heads.

"Semester in Kiev," She said as she slid him a five, as if that explained everything

The weather had gone from bad to worse in the two hours she'd spent in the bar. Where it had been somewhat overcast and chilly before, it was now dark and rainy and cold. She zipped up her leather jacket and slid into the waiting taxi, rattling off the address effortlessly despite her impaired mental state. The young bartender had probably been right to send her home: the moment she had stood up off that barstool her eight Vodka Tonics had come rushing at her like an angry mob. She was drunk, she knew, but not belligerent. Well, not yet anyway, but she wasn't going to rule out the possibility. The last thing she had eaten had been … shit, what had she eaten?

Pizza. They'd had pizza that afternoon at the station, herself and Castle and Ryan and Esposito. She hadn't eaten since then, though, so she was drunk on a basically empty stomach. Not a great idea.

When the taxi pulled to a stop next to the curb she fished in her jacket pocket for her wallet. She hadn't brought much with her – just her jacket and her wallet, along with her keys – but it took her a minute to pull the item in question out of her pocket. She passed him two twenties, enough to cover the fare and a generous tip, and slid herself out of the backseat. She checked the small of her back out of habit, her brain taking a second to register that she had (wisely) chosen to leave her gun at home.

She started toward the door, and then stopped all of a sudden when she saw the doorman waiting just a few feet in front of her, under an invitingly dry awning.

Her building did not have a doorman.

"Shit."

She was standing in the rain, her hair and her jeans slowly becoming more and more soaking wet as she stared at the fancy numbering on the dark green awning before her.

The very sight of the building was almost more than she could take.

She studied the little puddles of water gathering at her feet as she rode the elevator up, trying her damnedest to keep the anxiety bubbling within her at bay. Every step seemed to sap more and more of her resolve, and by the time she got to the door it was all she could do to hold herself together long enough to knock.

When the door swung open and she found herself looking into the radiant blue depths of his eyes, that last wall inside her heart burst.

"Castle."

Her voice was thick, and the single syllable of his name was all that she could manage. The pain and the alcohol and the rage smashed into one another then, and she could no longer tell if it was rain on her cheeks or tears. The last fraying strings with which she had sown herself together finally snapped beneath the relentless pressure that had plagued them, and before she knew it Kate was literally falling into her partner's arms.

"Kate," He said in terrified surprise, both strong arms reaching out to catch her

He was pulling her into the apartment in a half dragging, half carrying motion that would have been difficult if she hadn't turned to a boneless mess in his arms. He was trying to talk to her, she could hear the timbre of his voice floating down to her from somewhere above her, but she could not form an answer.

Wave upon wave of crushing grief took her then, wreaking havoc on her body and presenting itself in the form of uncontrollable shivering. They were sitting – at least, she thought they were sitting – and she was curled up against him like a kitten lost in a storm. His arms had locked around her like a barrier, and a small part of her consciousness registered that she must be soaking him through, but he did not move.

"Kate."

Her name, he was saying her name with that voice that she had come to adore above all others. He was reaching out to her, she knew, he was calling to her from across the gaping chasm that seemed to stand between them.

"Cancer."

She sobbed then, a true sob that tore itself from deep within her heart. She thought of all those silly children's stories that always counseled against saying the name of the terrifying beast unless you wanted to draw its attention. Even just hearing the word spoken aloud made her feel as though that beast were real; saying it aloud was like cementing it in her life. She felt as though she'd just lost hard won ground.

"My father has cancer," She made herself say, her voice hoarse

She had given life to the demon; she had named it for the whole world to hear.

Kate suddenly felt as though she'd admitted defeat.

She made herself push away from his chest, because Castle had not said anything. Maybe he hadn't heard her; maybe the two hours of trying to drown herself in alcohol had finally caught up with her and she had not been coherent.

When she looked at his face, however, she knew that he had heard her. She had shocked him, she could tell by the way his eyes had widened and the color had leeched from his face.

The alcohol was catching up to her. She could feel it suddenly, could feel the heaviness in her limbs and the spinning in her head. Eight had been too many; years had passed since she'd been a flighty college student in Kiev, what in the hell had she been thinking she could drink like that again?

Castle was whisking her away again, and right about the same time Kate realized that she was about to empty the albeit meager contents of her stomach she found herself perched in front of the toilet.

Castle held her hair away from her face as she vomited. He was talking to her in soothing, even tones, but she couldn't hear what he was saying. Two, three times she vomited, until she had probably given up everything she'd eaten in the last two days, and as she sat on the cool tile floor of Castle's bathroom a memory came to her unbidden. She was twenty years old again, her dad so blitzed that he didn't even know where he was. She had come home from work late and found him in the bathroom, prostrate in a pile of his own vomit. She'd helped him sit up long enough to clean both him and his mess, but he had started vomiting again before she could help him up. Two hours she'd stayed in that bathroom with him, until she was certain that he would rupture something with the force of her puking. He'd cried the entire time, cried and moaned her mother's name and demanded to know why the world had been so cruel as to take her away from him.

She hated that memory. She hated it, and she was suddenly ashamed at the thought of what she must look like now, crouched over Castle's toilet as she fought the dry heaves that kept trying to take over.

Kate thought that maybe she had dozed a little, because suddenly she was opening her eyes to see that Castle was holding out clothes for her.

"You have to get out of those clothes, Kate," He said gently, "They're soaked."

She glanced down at herself – when had she taken off her jacket? – and her jeans and t-shirt were indeed still dark with moisture. She looked back to the dry clothing he was offering: one of his t-shirts and a pair of what looked to be some kind of gym shorts. She took the proffered items and let Castle help her stand. Her head swam and her legs felt like jelly beneath her; she gripped his bicep as she fought to find her balance. She waited, took a breath, and then looked at the dry clothes she held in one hand.

Oh, this was so not going to work.

"Castle," She started, trying not to sway, "This isn't … I can't … I'm gonna need your help with this."

Her admission caught even her off guard, and she could tell from the way that he was looking at her that he was floored. Not that she could blame him … she had pretty much just asked him to undress her.

Literally.

And then redress her drunken ass.

Ugh. She was going to be the death of both of them.

With her heart hammering so loudly against her ribcage that she felt certain the neighbors could probably hear it, Castle helped her undress. She tried not to think about the way his knuckles brushed the tender skin on her sides as he pulled the hem of her shirt up and over her head. She stumbled a little as it came up over her eyes, instinctively reaching out to latch onto his biceps to steady herself. A minute part of her brain was silently thanking Providence that she had picked a cute bra to wear that morning, and then instantly chided herself for that thought. Castle unfolded the t-shirt, and even in her drunken haze Kate could see the way he was pointedly doing everything in his power to not look at her almost naked torso.

Such a gentleman … not that she would kill him if he did sneak a look or two.

What the hell? She did not really just say that, even to herself … No more vodka.

Her jeans were another matter entirely. She was fervently trying to convince herself that the goosebumps that erupted all over her skin had nothing to do with the fact that his fingers had just brushed the skin of her stomach. Just like her sudden trembling had nothing to do with the very thought that Richard Castle was at that very moment sliding her jeans down the length of her legs.

I don't need a Devil to torture me, she told herself then, I'm apparently great at torturing myself.

By the time she was once again dressed – this time in warm, comfortable clothes that smelled vaguely like the man standing before her – Kate felt certain that her throat had become so parched that it must surely crack and bleed the first time she tried to utter even a single word.

She had not released her hold on his biceps, and when their gazes locked she thought that maybe his dazzling baby blues were a shade or two darker than they normally were.

"Come on," He said, his voice gravelly, "I've got a spare toothbrush."

How she succeeded in brushing her teeth without inadvertently making herself vomit once again was a mystery. She did feel better afterward though, and as she set her toothbrush – a spare that he had been keeping in the medicine cabinet – on the shelf above the sink her eyes raised to the mirror.

She stared at herself for a few seconds before the quirk of a wry smile turned up the corner of her lips.

"You did my hair."

He had pulled her still wet tresses into a rather decent ponytail. When did he do that?

"I used to do Alexis' hair every morning before school. C'mon."

She let him lead her back to the living room, still unsteady and wavering on her feet. By the time they got back to the couch she had a mild case of the spins, so she didn't realize at first that she was once again curled into his broad chest.

For the first time in many years, Kate did not fight. She didn't try to wiggle her way out of the warm arms that encircled her waist and traced little patterns on her back. She didn't shy away from the open, honest affection and comfort that he was providing her. She didn't even try to rationalize it, although that might have had more to do with the eight Vodka Tonics than a conscious decision on her part.

Instead, she took a shuddering breath and tried not to think about the storm that raged within her. She inhaled the scent she had come to attribute as being solely Richard Castle, silently begging his soul to reach out and act as an guiding light to her own lost one.

Tonight, Kate was adrift in a sea of pain and fear.

Tonight, she needed a safe harbor.

"Tomorrow," Castle said softly, his voice rumbling in his chest, "You can tell me everything, and we'll take it from there. But tonight, you just need to rest."

There were literally thousands of things that she could have said to him then, millions of combinations of words she could have put together in response.

"Don't let go," Was all she said, burrowing into him

His arms tightened around her in response.

Tonight, Kate needed a lighthouse to guide her sinking ship through the storm.

Cancer is fucking terrible. My mom just got diagnosed with breast cancer, so everything that Kate was feeling is very real and very personal to me. I probably would have done the go out and get shmammered thing, if it wasn't for the fact that I am currently deployed to Iraq. Stupid, stupid Iraq ...