Of Course Not

Summary: "She has to leave him. But she just can't." 8x02 Fix.

She stands there in the hallway holding her bag, tears on her cheeks. She has to leave. She has to put this to bed so they're safe. She has to do this so they can go forward with no shadows. She has to get justice for the friends she got killed with her obsession.

She has to leave him.

But she just can't.

She can't make herself take that step. She can't make herself walk to the elevator and push the button. She loves him. She worked so hard to get what they have, and she can't seem to make herself walk away even though every second she stays here is putting him in danger.

She stands there for a full minute, rooted the spot, before slowly sliding down to sit on the floor, the bag plopped sadly beside her. She'll leave in a minute. She just…needs a minute.

She wipes roughly at her cheeks, listening to the utter lack of sound coming from the apartment, the loft—her home.

She can't do this, can she? Can she really walk out on him?

Well, she has, she supposes. But how much does it really count if she never even made it down the hall?

She pulls her legs up to her chest and stares at the wall, at the little scuff they still haven't had buffed over from when they moved her painting in. He got the frame fixed, but they never bothered with the wall.

It's theirs, that little spot. And she loves it.

God, she loves him.

And she thinks, she thinks she loves him enough to leave him.

But maybe not. Maybe she can't. Maybe she just doesn't love him enough to abandon him. How can she? That's—how can that be loving him? Not when it put that look on his face, the utter heartbreak in his eyes.

How can she walk away when it's literally ripping her heart into pieces?

Maybe she loves him so much she can't leave him. Maybe she loves him so much she just can't do this.

She jerks when he slides down the wall next to her. He stretches his legs out in front of him and just sits next to her as she sniffles.

"Need some help with your bag?"

He says it lightly, jokingly, but she hears the acid beneath it.

She can't blame him. She just tried to leave being the operative word, apparently.

"I can't make myself get up," she admits.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't make myself close the door."

She glances at him, notes the curve of his shoulders, the slump of his body. "I—I really should," she mumbles. "I should leave. I should walk out, and you should—I'd hope wait for me—but you should let me."

"I did, didn't I? You didn't leave."

"No," she agrees. "I can't," she adds. "Castle, I can't. Everything I have is screaming for me to get up and leave you here, and I just can't."

"Are you waiting for me to argue with you? Because that's just stupid, Beckett."

She huffs a little laugh at that. "No. No, if I could leave, that's on me. I don't want you to make me," she says on a whisper.

"Then why did you?"

She shakes her head. "I—I can't."

"Can't leave, or can't tell me?" he prods, shifting a little closer. "You can tell me anything, Kate. Anything."

"I know," she says, scrubbing roughly at her face. "I know I can. I shouldn't."

"Why?"

"Because it's not fair to you, and it's not safe for you, and if I'm gonna throw myself down a hole, I don't need to drag you with me."

He scoffs. "What part of marriage do you not get? I'm in this. You go down, I go down."

"But you don't have to," she exclaims, turning to look at him. "You don't have to put yourself in danger. I—I don't want you to. I don't want you to get hurt, Castle. I never do. And if I drag you with me, you could get dead. I don't want you dead."

His brow creases and he considers her for a beat before reaching out to cup the back of her neck, dragging her in to press his forehead to hers.

"I don't want you to get dead either. So let me help, Kate. Whatever it is, we can take care of it. You know that. You just saw that."

She shakes her head, their foreheads bumping together. "But—"

"But nothing. You think walking away is going to stop it? If someone's coming after you, you don't think they'll come after me? Walking away doesn't get rid of our relationship. You want a clean break, you get a divorce."

"You want a divorce?" she says, hears the horror in her own voice.

"Of course not," he says roughly. "You want a divorce?"

"Of course not," she repeats.

"Then why the hell are we crying in the hallway?"

She presses her lips together and leans into him, letting him catch her—amazed that he still does.

"Because I love you, and I want to protect you, and I can't seem to do that."

He huffs and slowly pulls her up, kicking her bag—there's important stuff in there—inside and dragging her in with him. He releases her and shuts the door, locking it.

"You want to protect me? Explain, Kate. Explain what's wrong, and we'll do this, together."

"I—" she starts, staring at the door behind him. "I have to stop it," she mumbles.

"Stop what?"

"Locksat."

He stares at her. "You have to?"

"Someone does. They—Castle, I did a search for Bracken, and six people ended up dead. I have to stop it, whatever it is. I have to."

He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. "I thought it was safe."

"For now," she agrees. "But someday, something will shake down and it'll come up again. It did with Bracken. And then—God, if I haven't done something, more people will die. I could die. I can't just…wait around forever for this. I can't go on with our life without this being closed. What if we have kids and one day they're 19 and I end up dead in an alley, Rick? I can't live with that."

He blows out a breath and bobs his head. "Okay. Okay. So, what do we do?"

"We," she starts, taking a step toward him. The crude stitches on her side pull and she hisses.

He jerks forward and wraps an arm around her waist, quickly guiding her back into the bedroom and through to the bathroom. And she lets him.

She's not leaving.

She's letting him help.

It's stupid. And reckless. And wrong. But it's—he's right. They'll be better together.

Leaving wouldn't protect him, not the way she wants. He's right, he'd still be a target. She's not a good enough actress to pretend to hate him, to pretend his life, and the life they've built isn't worth everything.

And just like he lifts off her shirt and begins prodding gently at her rough stitches, he'd find a way and stick his fingers into her investigation anyway, just like today. And for all she knows he'd end up with more spiders on his head.

Castle hates spiders.

"How are you?" she whispers. He looks up at her, confused. "The spiders. I didn't ask. I saw—and you hate them."

He shakes his head lightly. "Really?"

"What? You saw that one in the Hamptons and nearly broke your leg trying to climb onto the bed. Are you okay?"

"I'm looking at your stitches—your self-made stitches, and you want to know if I'm okay about the spiders?"

"Yes."

"And you wanted to strike out on your own. Have some priorities, Beckett."

"I am," she insists, cupping the side of his face. "Are you okay?"

Because it matters. It matters so much.

"If you don't sneak out in the middle of the night and leave me, I'm fine. You can soothe my nightmares, okay?"

God, does that cut deep. But she can do that. She can wake him from the nightmares. She nods. "Okay."

"Okay. Can I play nurse now? Or take you to an actual nurse? You did this yourself?"

"Yeah," she says, glancing down at the jagged, lumpy crease of her skin. At least she managed to get most of the blood off.

"Badass," he quips, crowding her against the counter as he reaches for bandages and antiseptic. "Remind me why we didn't go to the hospital for this?"

"There wasn't really time."

"Bullshit."

"I didn't make it a priority," she amends.

"We're gonna have a talk about priorities," he says firmly. "After we do this, and eat, and sleep really hard."

"Okay," she says, eyes full as he tenderly takes care of her, makes sure the cut is clean and bandaged. He forces an Aleve on her and then wraps his arms around her, lips pressed to the side of her head.

"I'm kind of pissed," he tells her ear.

She laughs sadly at that. "I know. I'm sorry."

He huffs at her. "You tried to leave me."

"I know," she repeats, softer.

"I can't believe you tried to leave me."

"I thought," she starts, before curling her hand around the back of his neck. "I didn't think it through," she decides. "I wanted to protect you, and I got blinded by that, and I'm sorry, Rick. Really," she pulls back. "I know that's not enough, but I love you, and I'm sorry."

"Promise me you won't do it again," he says, eyes intent, arms locked around her.

She couldn't make it five steps out of the apartment. There's no way she could go a day, a week, a year—and it could be more—without him.

"I promise," she says, lifting to press her lips to his, pouring it into him. "I promise."

"Okay," he says, letting her go to take her hand and guide her back to the kitchen. "Redo. I'm making smorelettes. You want one?"

No. No, she really doesn't want a smore, in an omelet. Who even thinks of that?

But she can see the hope in his eyes, can see that this, eating that disgusting concoction would be the first step to rebuilding all the trust she shattered not thirty minutes ago.

"Okay, Castle. Make me a smorelette, please."

He grins and she watches, settling onto one of the stools, like the whole thing never even happened. She can see her bag out of the corner of her eye, but decides to live without everything inside it for now. She'll shove it into the closet later, close the chapter on her thoughts of separation and solo crime solving vigilante justice.

Partners.

She even keeps the smorelette down when he serves it, laughing as he beams at her for not gagging.

It's truly terrible.

But it's his, and he's hers.

No more martyrdom. They're in this together, disgusting chocolate confections and all.