Atychiphobia:

From the Greek "phóbos", meaning "fear" or "morbid fear". It is the abnormal, unwarranted, and persistent fear of failure.

A person afflicted with Atychiphobia considers the possibility of failure so intense that they choose not to take the risk. Often this person will subconsciously undermine their own efforts so that they no longer have to continue to try. The victim is typically aware that the fear is irrational, making the problem a largely subconscious one.

Curled up on the floor, she stared at the woman across from her. It was heartbreaking to see her like this. Eyes red, puffy. Tears streaming down her heated cheeks. Hair disheveled. Tear-soaked tissue gripped tightly in her palm like she was desperate to hold on to something... anything… to keep herself from spinning out of control.

She'd always been so stoic for as long as they'd known each other. Kept everything bottled up. Compartmentalized. There had been girls' nights with a few tears once in a while, but she'd never seen her like this before. Never seen her so... broken. Defeated.

It wasn't often she saw her friend unmasked. Emotionally naked. Raw.

But there she was… sitting in front of her… completely wrecked. And she could do nothing.

And it killed her.

She gingerly flipped through the stack of emails as Beckett told her what she knew... what they'd discovered... what Castle had said in his defence.

"You should've seen him, Lanie," Beckett exhaled heavily, trying desperately to keep herself from falling apart. "He looked like a little boy, he was so scared."

The deafening silence filling the room was excruciating. Lanie said nothing, trying to remain strong in her sympathy as Beckett lost herself within her own thoughts, elbow resting on the couch cushion, fist pressed against her swollen, crimson lips.

"I know him, Lanie," Kate stammered, words heavy in her dry throat. "He is...an immature, egotistical...self-centered jackass sometimes..." Sorrow and frustration welled in her blood-shot eyes as she looked at her friend. "But he's not this."

Eyes glancing down, Lanie paused to consider everything. Everything she knew about the case. Everything she knew about the writer. She had to… had to ask the question that neither of them really wanted to ask. "Are you sure?" she whispered, her brown eyes reading Beckett's demoralized face, not certain that she even wanted to know the answer.

Averting her eyes from Lanie's sympathetic gaze, Beckett swallowed, eyes glazing over. It took everything in her to keep her lip from quivering. Her hold on the damp tissue tightened as she considering the weight of the M.E.'s query.

But she was sure.

She knew him. All of him. He was many things...but he was not a murderer.

He didn't do this. He didn't belong in a cage.

"I promised him, Lanie..." Her voice cracked as she stared blankly, unable to meet her friend's concerned gaze. "Promised I would figure this out…" she swallowed, clutching the Kleenex tight in her fist. "That if he was ever in jail, I'd get him out."

Lanie remained silent, quiet and steadfast in her support. Reserved in her movements, she reached forward hesitantly, gently laying her right palm on Beckett's knee. The pain on Kate's face cut her to the quick as the detective's eyes shifted to meet hers.

Lanie's lips parted slightly - advice, comfort, counsel... all thoughts dying deep in her throat. There was so much the M.E. wanted to say… but she couldn't find the words.

She resigned herself to sitting quietly beside her distraught friend, watching as the detective agonized about her partner. Her lover. Her best friend. Her everything.

Doubts began to race through Beckett's mind. Flooded… overwhelmed by all the fears, all the uncertainties. He believed her to be extraordinary. He had faith in her.

But...

Kate choked as her bloodshot eyes welled with tears. "What if I can't?..."

Lanie came close to offering to stay the night. Sleep on the couch. Keep her company. But she knew Kate Beckett. Knew that the detective wanted to be alone. Needed to be alone.

"You need to talk," Lanie whispered, standing in the open doorway, "you call me."

Beckett simply nodded her head once, forcing a slight smile that her heart wasn't feeling. Lanie reciprocated the soft smile as she gently brushed her palm down Kate's forearm, just for a brief moment, trying to convey all the sympathy and tender support she couldn't find in her voice. Beckett pursed her lips together as she looked at her friend, Lanie nodding in return before she released Beckett's arm and exited the apartment.

Without a word, Kate carefully shut the door, and then turned to collapse against it, face buried in her heated palms. Her mind was racing, thoughts loud and obnoxious. Screaming at her. Taunting her. Tearing her apart.

Her back slid down the door as her knees buckled and gave out beneath her weight. Her body crumpled to the floor, legs curled up tight against her chest as she sat on the hard, wooden surface, unable to move. Unwilling to move.

Her entire body was throbbing, nausea building in her core, muscles weak, breathing arduous, eyes burning. But there were no more tears. She'd spent them all.

All she felt was numb.

The scalding water sluiced over her shoulders, down her back, the air in the bathroom thick with heavy steam. Her white cotton blouse stuck to her skin, soaked through and transparent. Water dripped from her drenched hair, soaked strands plastered across her forehead, the side of her face, down her back.

Her lithe form curled in on itself, knees tucked up under her chin, arms wrapped tight around her legs, warm water pooling around her black pants as she huddled on the floor of the tub.

Wet heat ran down the edge of her cheek in a steady stream - tears? shower? She couldn't tell.

She watched the clear fluid circle the drain, the counter-clockwise flow of the water hypnotic, mesmerizing.

She wanted it to wash away. All of the pain. All of the anguish. All of the uncertainty. She wanted this whole day to disappear down the drain with the rest of the run-off.

But the scorching liquid did nothing to relieve her tension.

She suddenly felt so constricted, hindered, smothered by her dank clothing. Desperate fingers raked at the small buttons, twisting and flipping and tugging, furiously straining to remove the drenched cotton, peel it from her torso like a snake would shed its skin.

Wrestling with the wet material, Kate ripped the sleeves from her arms and gracelessly flopped the sopping shirt on to the porcelain surface beside her, burying her eyes in the heels of her hands as she tried desperately to calm her mind, focus her thoughts.

The hot spray of the shower continued to teem over her body, cascading over her shoulders, scalding her now bare flesh.

It felt good. Relieving even. The burning sensation, the intense heat singeing her skin. This pain was tangible. This pain she could handle.

Damp tendrils of hair twisted into a messy bun, she peeled her drenched pants and underwear from her legs, stripped the soaked bra from her chest, and carelessly dumped them on the cool tile of her bathroom floor.

Water dripping from her naked form - a shallow puddle collecting at her feet - she gazed at the sopping pile of clothing, her mind blank.

Indifferent.

Desolate.

Depleted.

As she reached for the towel that hung on the wall, she halted her movements as she caught sight of the mirror, now coated in a thick, foggy mist. Her long, slim fingers curled in on themselves as she froze, mesmerized and reverent.

Her stilled arm lowered to rest on the smooth granite counter, mind haunted, as she became engrossed by the obscured reflection staring back at her, the murky vapor beginning to bead, condensation trickling down the glass surface - as if it was crying, adopting the emotions that had drained out of her.

As if in a hypnotic trance, her deep hazel eyes transfixed on the blurred image of the woman in the mirror - a distorted echo of her current self.

A haze of reddened flesh filled the image, a vague outline of shoulders, a neck, a head. But there was no face. No mouth… no nose… no cheeks. No eyes. Stoic and immobile, she stood there - statuesque - as she contemplated the brutal honesty of the reflection. The figure in front of her was stripped and raw. An empty shell. Vacant.

Undefined.

She no longer felt whole. No longer sure who she was.

Without Castle, she was incomplete.

Tentatively, her arm stretched forward, index finger reaching out towards the ominous shape. She gently pressed her palm against the reflective surface, the chill of the wet film soaking into her skin, stimulating her senses. Pausing a brief moment, she observed her hand melting into the glass, examining how it fused with itself.

Reflection and reality.

She meditated on the notion for a moment before swiping her hand across the cool surface, as if wiping away her doubts, erasing the fog that had been building within her. She was immediately met by her own eyes staring back at her, boring into her - her past, present, and future flashing through their depths.

Don't worry Castle… I'd get you out.

Memories of her vow from so long ago echoed in her mind as she traipsed across her bedroom in a trance-like state. Searching through her laundry hamper, she smiled her first genuine smile in hours - before this whole mess began - as she pulled his dark blue dress shirt from the pile of unclean clothes.

Holding the bunched material against her face, she slowly closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply, the comforting scent of his deliciously musky cologne suffusing her senses. Sliding her arms into the long sleeves, the soft cotton draped loosely over her shoulders as she enveloped her naked body inside the oversized shirt, wrapping herself within him, allowing the ghost of his presence to permeate her very being.

Giving her comfort.

Giving her strength.

Crawling heavily onto the bed, her bare legs inched towards his side of the mattress as they slid underneath the plush, plum comforter. Pressing her face into his pillowcase, she felt her body relax into his warmth.

Arms caressing tightly around the plump, fluffy pillow, she gave into the overwhelming exhaustion that was overpowering her body and her mind. Hooded eyes began to droop as she hugged his pillow securely against her chest, the once-obtrusive and anxious thoughts swirling in her head now muffled as sleep overtook her.

Her eyes shot open, brain racing. Turning her head, she glanced at the alarm clock on her bedside table. 4:36am.

She'd only slept for three - maybe four - hours, and she was still mentally and emotionally drained. But she had no time to waste.

Yesterday was gone. Today was a new day. And she had a renewed sense of focus. An intense determination.

She quickly threw on a pair of black pants and a black turtleneck. Black. Apropos… considering how dark and uncertain everything was right now.

But she promised she'd get him out. And she always keeps her promises.

She'd arrived at the Precinct rather quickly, the halcyon of the 5:00am Manhattan traffic allowing for an expeditious commute.

She didn't really remember how she got there, the entire trip a bit of a blur.

Stepping out of the elevator, Beckett padded quickly towards her desk, carelessly tossing her leather coat across the back of her chair, not even slowing her pace as she cut straight through the bullpen, bypassing both Ryan and Esposito who were already at their desks shuffling through files and triple-checking their notes, completely focused on the case.

Rounding the corner, her body unexpectedly recoiled as she approached Holding. Legs feeling like rubber, bile swirling at the base of her throat.

Steadying herself with a deep breath, her stride decelerated as she approached the confined, gated space, flinching slightly before peering through the bars. His normally large, solid form curled in on itself, cast almost entirely in shadow, dwarfed by the foreboding enclosure of the dark and ominous cage. Arms resting on his knees, chin tucked tight against his chest, fingers twined tightly together. Immobile. Silent. Empty.

He looked so drained. So helpless.

So small.

He didn't move, didn't even twitch as she padded softly across to the barred cell. She stood quietly, leaning on the side the cage for several minutes, arms crossed against her chest, her breathing slow and measured as she chewed lightly on her thumb nail, unsure of what to say before his timid voice broke the silence.

"It was Tyson," he muttered, not even looking up from the floor.

Her eyes shot up to look at him, but he wouldn't lift his head. Couldn't bring himself to look at her - fearing what he might read on her face. "What?" she swallowed on a heavy breath.

"3XK…" he choked, voice raspy, broken, weak. "He killed Tessa."

"How...?" she exhaled, eyes wide, focused, fingers loosely gripping the edge of the metal cage.

She was bolting from the holding cell as he mumbled, "He was here…"

He sat in silence, gaze locked on the L-shaped scuff mark on the floor, as she re-entered the ominous space. He felt so confined within the cage - like an animal. Less than human. Less than himself.

She slowed her pacing as she approached the gated door, her hand motioning forward tentatively before she paused her movement. Curling her fingers into a fist, she retracted her arm, releasing a slow, anxious breath as she pursed her lips.

"Castle?..."

He didn't move, eyes fixed and glazed over, darkness casting his face in sinister shadows.

She exhaled a deep, belaboured breath as she rounded the side of the cage, taking a seat on the bench along the wall. They sat there for several minutes, not daring to look at each other, fearful of what they might see in each other's eyes.

"We went through the surveillance footage from last night," she remarked finally. His breath caught in his chest as he waited for her to continue. For her to confirm what he already knew. Confirm what he feared. "There's no evidence that Jerry Tyson was in the station... and there is no evidence that the system had been tampered with."

He exhaled heavily, shoulders slumping slightly. "Beckett, I swear to you, he was here."

Hearing the apprehension, trepidation in his voice, she interjected. "Castle-"

"No, I know. I sound crazy," he insisted, cutting her off. "A desperate story from a desperate man, just… just like he wanted." In an attempt to cope with the distressing situation in which he found himself, he almost laughed.

Almost.

"You're right," Beckett acquiesced, shifting her gaze to look at him for the first time. "It does sound desperate."

Castle swallowed, flinched. There was no proof. No chance. No hope.

Her eyes washed over the side of his solemn face as she finally found the words she'd been searching for. The right words. "But it's the first time that this story has made sense."

Turning his head sharply, Castle glanced over his left shoulder at Beckett, hazel eyes locking on deep blue. In the depths of her steady gaze, he saw more than his partner, more than his girlfriend. He saw life. He saw hope.

He saw trust.

"You believe me?" he whispered, the lilt in his voice both sure and astonished.

A soft smile tugged at the edge of her lips, eyes speaking volumes.

"I never stopped."

That was enough. That was everything.

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The scene between Lanie and Beckett in "Probable Cause" kills me every time, but I always wondered how Beckett handled the rest of the night. Regrouped.

I've never gone this dark, and I've never written anything with so little dialogue... but I wanted to challenge myself.

I hope it worked.

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Props to Syzygy for giving me the title and blah blah blah. ;)

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As per usual, I love to know what you thought.

Judge away. :D