Chapter 1: War wounds

It's not widely known that Detective Second Grade Kate Beckett is intensely curious, albeit only about certain matters. Then again, next to Castle, who is as curious as a mischievous kitten about everything that passes his writer's nose, and then even more curious about the things that don't, but ought to, (such as Kate Beckett, preferably without outerwear) it might be difficult to notice. It's much more widely known that she is an excellent detective, so it's difficult to understand why observers haven't made the obvious leap of logic. All excellent detectives need to be intensely curious.

Normally that curiosity was wholly focused on the case, on who did it, on the motive, means and opportunity of each witness and suspect. Who are often the same people. But ever since Castle came around – not that she had ever admitted it – a proportion – sometimes a very large proportion – of that same curiosity had been focused, very secretly, on him. Of course, that was perfectly understandable. He entered her life as a suspect. Of course she was curious, in a detective way. Then he was a pest. So she became curious about that. She called it curiosity about how to get rid of him. Then he saved her life. About that point her curiosity developed an independent streak that she'd have paid a fortune – or the level of Castle's Nikki Heat advance, which is likely the same thing – to get rid of. Because her curiosity, ever since, had been poking and prodding and pushing her to find out everything about Castle. And by everything, it meant right down to his skin. All of his skin. And certain areas under his skin.

It is very widely known that Detective Second Grade Kate Beckett is a woman of iron will, steely self-control, and a closed mouth. Which is why no-one, least of all Richard Castle, had discovered the extent of her curious streak about him when it might have done some good. Or indeed that she had one at all.

For the last four months, though, her curious streak, at least as regards Castle, has been quiescent. Being shot tends to have that effect. And now she's been back for a month, it's only focused on why he came back round at all. She doesn't know where to start with him. She doesn't know how to tell him she had lied – is still lying – to him about that day. She doesn't know how to bring down her walls to tell him why. And she doesn't know how to tell him that she isn't really fixed from the shooting at all.

It's entirely fair to say that this has not been a good day. For a start, it began at 5a.m. Even for Beckett, that was early, especially when she'd not gone home till past eleven. The team didn't know that, and although Castle had been giving her some very curious looks as she smothered her yawns she was quite confident that careful and extensive make up had covered the signs of little sleep and much stress. It all seemed to be improving when they got a genuine lead.

It all fell apart quite quickly when the suspect got a shot off and winged Beckett in the upper arm before Esposito turned him into pulp. She supposes, bitterly, it's lucky it wasn't eight inches left. Been there, done that. Got the scar.

The wound wouldn't have been quite so bad, except that in trying to avoid the shot she fell awkwardly and dislocated her right shoulder too. That hurt like a bitch, and she's spent the last four hours in an ambulance and then the accident and emergency department of Bellevue having her shoulder put back and being patched up with Castle hovering like a fretful fly and making an amount of noise that was almost as irritating. It's ruined her shirt, which is blood-splattered, has a hole in it, and makes her look like an extra from a John Woo movie. Which she hates. Though she likes the movies.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, they've made her wear a sling for the next few days. Which is positively ridiculous. She'd raised absolute hell when they'd tried to immobilise the arm with more than just a sling. Wholly unnecessary. So is the sling. She'd ditch it, if they hadn't made some quite unwarranted and highly unreasonable assumptions and told Castle, who they'd seemed to assume had far more influence and/or authority over her life (so that would be any) than he does, to make sure she wore it. And then told him to make sure she didn't use the arm too much for a week after the sling is off. It's her right arm. How can she not use it? The doctor had left before she got her brain in gear to correct him. Anaesthetic always slows her up. She doesn't know what they gave her but she remembers very little – except Castle's constant buzzing – of the last four hours, right up till the doctor's instructions.

And just to complete the absolute perfection of her day, Castle won't let her drive her cruiser. (She doesn't even know how it got to the hospital, though she suspects Ryan of aiding and abetting.) It wouldn't have hurt to leave the sling off for a little time. So right now she's in the passenger seat, sulking and (not that she'd admit it) in some considerable pain with another half hour to wait before more painkillers are allowable, and Castle is driving. Today officially qualifies as a bad day.

She hadn't thought it could get worse. But it does. And it is, of course, because it always is, Castle's fault. While she'd been sulking with her eyes shut trying self-hypnosis to take away the pain – which hadn't worked, who are all these people – idiots! - who recommend it? Beckett's sure that they're on something a lot stronger than self-hypnosis before they start that, and could they send the strong stuff her way right now? – he's not been taking the quickest route home.

"Castle?" she mutters crossly.

"Yeah? You know your car is really uncool. It doesn't do anything" –

"Castle!" she snaps. Very crossly. "Do you have any drugs?"

"No. What sort of drugs? I know a man" –

"Don't tell me. Somewhere in your extensive list of dubious and frankly criminal contacts you know a pusher. Purely for research. Forget it. Painkiller drugs. Legal ones."

"Yes."

"Hand them over."

"Can't. I put them in your purse. I'll get them when we get to the loft." Beckett winces, and makes a noise of extreme disappointment and pain. "But that'll not be long." She squawks. It doesn't carry anything like the force it should. Probably the necessary force is fully occupied trying to heal her arm.

"Why are we going to yours?" Castle looks seraphic. Her bad mood isn't annoying him at all.

"Because I've got the painkillers?"

"So have I. They'd still be in my purse if we went to my apartment. Which is where I live."

"Nope," he says cheerfully. What does he mean, nope? She's opening her mouth on a series of pain-fuelled and ill-tempered remarks on the subject when he carries on. "You're not to use your arm. You've to keep the sling on." He looks not just seraphic but positively pious. "The doctor told me to make sure you did." He's sounding as if he's the Angel Raphael, so saintly is his voice. It's rather spoilt by the smirk that has developed on his face. Beckett wants to slap it off, but her arm hurts too much and she doesn't want the car to crash. At least, not with her in it.

"So you're coming back to my place."

"No!"

"Yes. No arguing." He can't say that to her. He can't tell her what to do. He can't do this. But it seems he is, and she hurts too much to argue. "You're staying with us until you're better. You can't do anything with one arm. You can't cook, or wash up, or even shower without getting the wound and the sling all wet." The seraphic look turns wicked. "You'll need help for your shower." She growls. There is no amusement or flirtation in the sound at all. "Okay, too soon?"

"Far too soon. I can't stay with you. I want my own apartment and my own things and my own bed." Oh hell. The anaesthetic's got to her. Castle never lets an opportunity like that pass him by.

"I'm sure you'd like my bed." And there it is. "It's exceptionally comfortable. You'd sleep like a baby. Not that babies actually do sleep well. You'd sleep like a child." He looks happy.

"There's one huge disadvantage to your bed, Castle." He looks confused. "You're in it." He pouts.

"Most women would think that's an advantage."

"Well, I'm not most women. And I can't stay with you."

"You will. I'll sic Gates on you if you don't." He looks very smug. And it's a killer argument. Gates may not like Castle, but she'll like Beckett disobeying medical advice much less. She humphs as loudly as she can manage without jarring her arm, which turns out to be barely louder than a belching mouse, and sulks wordlessly but very, very loudly all the way back to SoHo.

Naturally Castle has a spare parking space in his building. Despite that meaning that she'll only have to walk as far as the elevator, it makes her cranky. Crankier. When he helps her out the car, she's horrified to find help is actually necessary. In fact, her knees are wobbly, she can't use her arm to push herself up and out, and she's in pain. All the anaesthetic has worn off at once.

He doesn't let go of her. And she hurts so much she doesn't even care. He keeps an arm round her waist until they're inside his door and then installs her very gently on the couch, produces the Lortab from her purse, gives her the dosage and a glass of water and stands over her till she takes them. She manages to say Thank you, Castle, with extreme gratitude and relief. It's the last thing she remembers till morning.

It's fair to say that Castle does not regard this as a good day either. Watching Beckett get shot (again. He didn't like it the first time.) and sitting in the emergency room was not in his plans for the day. At least this time she wasn't dying. He really, really hates her being hurt. It's not fair that her beautiful, oh-so-touchable-if-only-he-didn't-think-she'd-shoot-him, skin is damaged but maybe she'll let him kiss it better – in his dreams, Castle. He would say in his wildest dreams but his wildest dreams tend to be rather more…explicit. A lot more explicit. Quite definitely X-rated, in fact. But much as he'd have preferred that shot not to happen at all, because it is doing nothing for the health of his heart or his stress levels, once Beckett is patched up he perceives one or two advantages to the situation. In fact, his Pollyanna tendencies are in full flow.

Advantage one: he gets to drive. Beckett never lets him drive, and now she has to. So even though she is sulking blackly in the passenger seat and if looks could kill he'd be a little pile of cinders on the floor, he's driving! Though the car is very boring. If he touches the police controls, which are the only interesting thing about it, arm in sling or not Beckett will kill him. So he can't. And otherwise it has no redeeming features at all. Not like his cars. They go fast and look good. This does neither, comparatively. But he's driving! He bounces, just a little, in the seat. Until he remembers why he's driving.

Advantage two: Beckett has one arm – her right arm – in a sling. And she's right handed. So she's going to need some help. He likes being helpful, generally – that's why he's in the Twelfth (well, and the books, but that's at best an eighty-twenty split now and every time he looks at Beckett the balance tilts further) even if they rag him unmercifully about it – but he's never really had the chance to be helpful to Beckett personally before. Well. That's not true either (he thinks briefly of Coonan, and the small matter of $100,000; and when her apartment blew up, though she was – as ever – always at work and she didn't need any help, simply a place to stay) but he's never had a chance to be helpful like he's her family. Intimately helpful. Maybe family is the wrong word. Like he's her – not boyfriend. That's ridiculously cutesy and schmaltzy and just wrong – lover. That's it. Lover.

Advantage three: this grows squarely out of advantage two, and he really shouldn't be thinking like this when Beckett's injured but he just cannot help it. She'll need to stay with him. He can provide all the help she needs at his. And maybe, when she's feeling better, he can show her all the good reasons she should stay that aren't connected to help. Because four months ago, or so, he'd thought she'd near as dammit told him that they had a chance. Until it all went wrong.

He likes these advantages. He likes them very much.

He does not like the fact that Beckett, quite understandably, is not in a good mood. In fact, she's in an absolutely foul temper and although it isn't exactly directed at him it isn't exactly not either. None of his usual smart comments seem to cheer her up. But when he pulls up in the parking under his loft and finds that she can't even get out the car without him helping her, things improve. Indeed, though he's sure she'll never, ever, admit it, she not only looked very grateful but she also didn't object at all. Then she didn't object to his arm round her. Then she didn't object to him keeping it there, all the way to settling her comfortably on the couch. And then she – for Beckett, anyway – showered him with thanks and promptly fell asleep. Sleep is something that he is perfectly certain she hadn't had much of at all the previous night.

Castle's reasonably muscular, though it's not that obvious, but looking down on Beckett out cold on his couch he has a problem. He could relocate her to the guest room. But. But it's upstairs, which means carrying her upstairs, which means negotiating his way around the stairs with a long-legged Beckett completely limp in his arms. But, however careful he is, (and he would be as careful as if he were juggling eggs) that carries a very high risk that he wakes her, or jars her arm. Neither is an acceptable outcome. There's only one acceptable outcome.

He clears the route to his bedroom and pulls back the comforter. He knows that Beckett will probably kill him for this, but he'll die in a good cause. He returns, picks her up as carefully as if she were a house of cards and carries her through to lay her just as carefully on the bed. At that point a further problem occurs to him. Taking off her shoes is very simple. He does that. And those funny little nearly-sock things that women seem to wear instead of hose when they're wearing pants.

Her shirt is blood-spattered. He feels a little sick, when he thinks about that. She can't stay in that. More to the point, it's got a bullet hole – rip – through the sleeve. It'll never be mendable, and anyway he can't exactly see Beckett plying a needle and thread. Doesn't fit with the Glock. He goes back to the kitchen and finds a pair of sharp, large scissors.

Hmm. Better take her dress pants off, too. He suspects that they are also bloodied. He really does not like that. He'll get them cleaned for her. She'll like that. She might like it enough that she doesn't shoot him when she realises that he's undressed her. Explaining this is going to be tricky. But his motives are pure. Honestly. He undoes her holster – oops, should have made her take that off before the painkillers kicked in – how would she have taken it off one-handed? He should have taken it off her before the painkillers kicked in – and breathes a very quiet sigh of relief when neither that, nor unbuckling her belt (that provokes some rather inappropriate thoughts, and he has to remember the blood on her shirt and the ghastly feeling of absolute terror when the shot rang out to retain full control), nor undoing and then very, very carefully taking off her dress pants – oh my God is that what she wears underneath? He is so dead. – wakes her.

This was a really bad idea. It's just that the alternatives seemed worse. And he is a mature adult and she's hurt and he certainly isn't going to do anything inappropriate because he is a good man no matter how much he loves her and wants her, but his dreams are never going to be the same ever again. And he hasn't even cut her shirt off yet. He grits his teeth. He never, ever thought that given the chance to take Beckett's shirt off he'd be hesitating. Then again, he didn't think she'd be in a sling, doped on Lortab, and asleep either, if he were given that chance. He'd rather thought that it would have involved a nice dinner, some wine, (not too much) and a natural progression from kissing to touching to mutually undressing each other and exploring and…and… and this line of thought is really not helping. He forces his very undisciplined mind back to the reality at hand. Injured, bloodied Beckett needs to sleep comfortably. Therefore he needs to make her comfortable. Therefore, regardless of the considerable attractions of her style of underwear, he had better stop thinking like an uncouth frat boy and sort himself out.

He slices up both sleeves of the shirt, (like some Napoleonic-era surgeon, he flatters himself) carefully avoiding touching the sling, and across the shoulders till it's in two pieces, one over and one under her. He deals with the underneath one first, slipping an arm under her neck and lifting her fractionally to pull it out. He nearly has heart failure when she murmurs and moves a little, in case he's woken her and spoiled everything. Heart failure is exacerbated when he realises that the murmur equates to mmmm yes Castle and the move is a very tiny snuggle into the crook of his elbow. Well, well, well. What's the closed-off Detective Beckett been hiding all these months? Because he's no slouch as a detective either and that, my dear Watson, is what we civilian consultant detectives technically call a clue.

Which thought is also not helping.

He uses the moment he takes to dispose of the back of the shirt to calm down. Then he visualises, for the third or fourth or maybe four hundredth time, the crime scene and the shot and the ER and Beckett hurt. But not dying. This time, not dying. And then he takes the bloodied front away and oh oh oh she matches her underwear sets and oh oh oh he will dream about this for the rest of his natural life which may only be twenty-four hours long. But she is, even with a bandaged arm, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his whole entire life. He looks at her for a few moments. He's entitled to do that much. After all, he may never have the chance again. Especially after the next, and very thankfully last, bit. He simply cannot see how to get the bra off without jarring her arm or – or possibly and – waking her. With considerable regret for the ruined beauty of the underwear set, and considerable thanks to whoever invented front-fastening bras and that Beckett was wearing one today, he snips through the shoulder straps, undoes the front, tries very, very hard to keep his eyes averted (he is a good man) and carefully pulls it off and pulls the comforter over her.

He is, after all, only a man. Not a saint, or a seraph, or an angel. And from what he's already seen tonight, none of those would be able to resist Kate Beckett either. He pulls his bedroom door mostly shut behind him. He needs coffee (or a brain wipe) and then he'll open the private file on his laptop that he uses when it all gets too much like after the vampire case and after the Lockwood case and he'll write out everything he can't say or do or demonstrate. And then he'll take care of himself. Again.

He writes for some time. Then he stops writing, takes a short break, and afterwards considers the situation. Kate is sound asleep in his bed. He is now tired, and wishes to sleep. He also wishes to survive the next eight hours. But. Even though he knows he should go and sleep in the guest room himself, he can't. He needs to be with her in case she needs anything in the night. He wouldn't hear her from the guest room. He needs to be there, with her.

He slips carefully into his bed and falls asleep mercifully quickly, though sleep is interrupted by being woken by a definitive snuggle against him. With iron control he manages to limit his response (apart from the automatic reaction of certain uncontrollable areas of his anatomy) to a very gentle hand on her hip, which seems to suffice.

He never thought he'd be so glad to wake up and get out of a bed that contained Kate Beckett. Nor did he think he'd be glad of a lengthy meeting at Black Pawn. But both are, this morning, true. He leaves breakfast, another dose of Lortab and a note, and departs quietly.

So, ladies and gentlemen, here we are again. This story is finished, so posting will be regular.

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