How would he feel?

It sounded so selfish, but it was the only way he could even begin to understand what she was going through.

How would he feel if it was a member of his family who'd been killed, and he'd just shot the only person who might be able to tell him who ordered the hit?

And it was a hit – that much was certain. Someone high up, too, at least from what little he could glean while Coonan had a gun on him. Damn, but he felt guilty. He'd been held at gunpoint before, even managed to get the weapon away from the perp before he could fire, but this … he'd frozen. Maybe it was knowing how much it meant to Beckett, that she was willing to let the killer walk out rather than have him hurt … or maybe it was just his innate cowardice coming to the fore. And the guilt was eating at him. Okay, he'd head-butted the man, but he never expected …

Why did she do it?

Without thinking. Without a moment's pause she shot Coonan to save him.

Why?

He stared at his reflection in the mirror in the men's room, and a stranger stared back.

What if it had been Alexis? Or his mother? Or Kyra? Or … Kate? Would he have had the control, the guts to do what she did? To know she was perhaps closing the door on the one chance she could really know, really find out what happened that night, and still fire?

He wiped his hands over his face, trying to understand, to use that fertile imagination of his to get inside her head, to know why.

Her hands. She'd been shaking and crying, her hands covered in the man's blood, and all he could do was pat her on the back like she was a dog.

He couldn't feel more disgusted with himself if he tried.

And she'd been grateful that he offered to pay the $100,000 … Money. That's all he could throw at it. The one thing that meant absolutely nothing.

He was wrong. The disgust was growing.

What happened now? He'd told Beckett that he'd do whatever she wanted, even if it was nothing, but could he sit back and let her go through this alone? Of course not. But he'd been the cause. The reason Kate was now almost back to square one, her life – if not her sanity – once again hovering on the edge of the abyss.

She'd said it before, that one day he was going to get someone killed, only she'd meant Ryan or Esposito. This was worse. So much worse.

No. Better to end it. He'd be there for her, whenever she wanted, for whatever, but not at the precinct. His door would always be open, his phone on, but not here.

Do it. Do it now.

He walked out of the men's room, his back straight, heading for Kate's desk.

Words came out of his mouth, he was sure. Something about it being over, that he was done with police work. Then … then …

No, that wasn't right. She couldn't be saying what she was saying, that she needed him, didn't want him to leave, that … something about pigtails?

Relief swept through him. He'd been forgiven, and she wasn't going to turn him away again.

And she was going to be all right, he'd make sure of that. The bad jokes, the worse innuendoes … he'd keep them going, make her embarrassed to be seen with him, just so she didn't think about it. At least, until she was ready. Then he'd be at her side, her right hand, seeing it through to the end.