She remembers it like a dream, in hazy flashbacks. She's wanted it so much, for so long, that she wouldn't believe it was real, except he's here, his warm, solid chest rising and falling under her arm.
The sick feeling as she stepped towards him, and he stepped back. Not that she could blame him.
When her kissing him became him kissing her; the moment when everything changed.
His strength, pushing her hard against the door.
Her breath, hitching as his fingers deftly exposed her scar.
His hand, pressing over her pounding heart, over where she was wounded, warm and steady like a blessing.
Unbuttoning his shirt, something she'd imagined so often. Him watching her, his blue eyes darkening.
His pulling her into a long hug before she could go any further, before his hand slid up under her shirt to undo her bra.
Unbuckling his belt, his shuddering breath, cracking a joke that made her laugh, relaxing her as she reached in to feel him for the first time.
His plundering kiss even as he shoved a hand down the front of her pants, unafraid to give her what she wanted.
His hands encircling her wrists as he pinned her down against cool silk sheets.
Fighting his hold simply to enjoy letting him overpower her.
His eyes, bright with amusement and intrigue as he watched her reaction to the restraint. "Like that, do you?"
"Yes." She loved that he wouldn't let her go, no matter what. Thank God for that.
He remembered the condom just in time. She wouldn't have remembered at all.
His fingers, opening her. They were really going to do this.
That first long, slow, exquisite push that made her cry with happiness and relief and gratitude that she hadn't totally screwed this up like she had everything else. That nothing else mattered as long as he wanted her.
His look of concern at her tears before she reassured him, and the urgent joy with which they took each other, too eager to be gentle.
Their mingled shouts and cries of release, clutching one another, nothing left to hide.
The best night's sleep she's had in months, if not years.
But now she's awake, still reeling from yesterday's ups and downs, and on the most basic level, she hurts like hell from the fight and from hanging one-handed from the roof. God, how easy it would have been to let go, to fall and be done. To never know the hope and happiness that she experienced last night, that still sings through her being. She needs to talk to Ryan.
She shifts, muscle spasms stealing her breath; there's no way she's going to be able to get back to sleep without painkillers. She slips out from under Castle's arm by increments, and checks the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, but no luck. Maybe he's like her, and keeps them in a kitchen cupboard. She scans the room for something to wear, settling for all she can find that won't require opening a drawer or otherwise making a noise that might wake him.
And so it is that she walks slowly and stiffly to the bottom of the stairs clad in Castle's worn-to-perfection Batman t-shirt and plaid flannel pyjama bottoms, only to be faced with Alexis in her graduation outfit, just coming in the door. Alexis's expression is a picture, but she doesn't dare laugh.
"Detective Beckett?"
She freezes. Alexis. Polite to company even when they materialized at 7am wearing her dad's pyjamas. How much practice has she had at doing that, anyway? No, don't think about it. "Hey, Alexis."
"Hey... So... I guess things are okay between you and my dad."
She tries not to grin in such a way as to indicate that she had just had the most incredible night of sex with said dad, and it had started up against that very door. "Yes, you could say that. Yes."
Alexis wastes no time in throwing her arms around Kate. "That's great."
Kate hugs her back with a groan that startles both of them.
Alexis looks terrified. "Oh my God, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I... I just had a rough day yesterday. I was wondering if you had any Tylenol, or something."
"Oh, sure." Alexis starts rummaging through the cupboards. "It's in here somewhere."
"Kate?" Castle stands on the stair landing in his t-shirt and boxers, his face all sleepy and worried, and then, seeing his daughter, adopting an Oh my God, Alexis is here? expression. "Alexis?"
"Hey, Dad."
"Are you okay? I wasn't expecting you home till..." he shoots a glance at Kate, "much later."
"I'm fine. Kate's not. Where's the Tylenol?"
He comes downstairs and retrieves the pills and a medicinal-looking brown bottle from the cupboard next to the fridge, and pours a glass of water. In a very, very low voice, he says, "Last night... Did I hurt you?"
She laughs softly, nudging him. "No, it wasn't you." She accepts both pills and water gratefully.
He watches her closely. "So it was the thing on the roof?"
She blinks, trying not to shut down, trying to let him in. "Yeah. The thing on the roof."
"Ryan told me before... before you came over." His expression darkens. "I'm sorry. I wish I'd been there."
She shakes her head. "Did he tell you everything?"
"Everything he knew. I don't know if that's all there is to know." His eyes roam her body, as though he can assess the damage through her clothes. "So I'd like to hear it from you, if you feel like talking about it."
She can feel her heart begin to pound at the memory of yesterday. Her back and left shoulder suddenly go into spasm, and he looks alarmed. His hand slides across her back, not pressing, but present, steering her towards the stairs.
As they pass the upstairs bathroom, she stops. "I'm just going to..." Hiding away when she's hurt is so second nature that it takes a moment to catch herself. "Unless you... Could you maybe help me?"
His smile says Thank you. "Of course." He ducks into the bathroom to grab the first aid kit, and gestures her to go ahead of him into the bedroom. "What hurts?"
She scans her body for aches, seeking them rather than tuning them out, for a change. "Everything."
"All right," he says warmly. "Then I get to examine you all over."
"You did that last night."
"So I did, but the light wasn't good, and I was distracted." He becomes more serious. "You should've told me, we could've made allowances."
She grins. "Believe me, Rick, last night I was feeling no pain."
He flashes a brief grin, so full of that familiar boyish joy, before dropping it just as fast. "But now you are."
"Yeah," she sighs. Why can't she ever admit she's suffering without feeling weak? She indicates her left hip and all along the outside of her thigh. "There." She flexes her upper back and receives an answering stab. "And there. And a few more places."
He nods. "We'll start wherever you like."
As soon as she starts stripping off the Batman shirt, she finds that it's a really bad idea to try to lift her arms more than shoulder height. It feels good when he takes control of the operation, and the shirt is off in no time, with no pain.
After a moment's inspection of her back in the cold light of day, he says, "I'm surprised you slept at all last night. You're a mass of bruises back here."
"I was worn out." And for the first time in months, she had felt safe, cuddled up against him. She should tell him. She takes a deep breath. "And I felt really safe with you."
He looks incredibly pleased. "I'm glad," he says, rewarding her with a very gentle hug, and a kiss that almost makes her forget the pain again.
"Lie down on your stomach, and I'll fix this right up."
It feels so good to have him take charge this morning. She stifles a groan as she settles back down on the slippery silk sheets. She weathers his careful poking and prodding for serious injury, and after a while she realizes his attentions are having a surprising side effect. He presses her side, and she makes a noise that isn't exactly pain.
Baffled only momentarily, he grins. "This isn't supposed to be turning you on, Beckett."
"Maybe that's something we can see to later?"
"Don't you worry, the doctor will be in soon enough."
They both groan from the terrible joke as he opens that mysterious brown bottle from the kitchen.
"What's that?"
"A top secret, highly classified CIA recipe."
"Still with the CIA?"
"You won't be scoffing when this starts to work. Tell me if I'm hurting you."
What comes next is about as far from pain as she can imagine. His warm hands sweep gently over her hurts, working in some sort of magic potion that takes away the worst of the discomfort. It smells a little funny, but she doesn't care if it's come from the CIA or a corner drug store or by special delivery from Hogwarts. It works. His hands do the rest. She's drifting off when his fingers dip into the waistband of her pyjama bottoms.
"Lift your hips just a tiny bit."
Her breath catches, and he grins. "So that I can tend to you down there, that's all."
"It really hurts. I landed hard on that side."
"Okay. So let me see."
She lifts her hips and can't quite stifle a moan of pain, slight embarrassment, and something more like potential as he slides the soft flannel down to her knees.
"Wow," he says.
"'Wow', good, or 'wow, that looks awful?'"
He grins. "Both, for different reasons." But he's all business for now, giving the livid bruises and scrapes the same gentle and thorough care that he showed her back. "How're you feeling, Beckett?"
"Really good," she murmurs sleepily. "Thank you."
He rubs the back of her neck, working out the knots with his thumb. "We'll do some more later. I like taking care of you."
"I like you taking care of me too."
"I'm just relieved it's over," he says quietly. "I can't stand you getting hurt."
She stiffens under his hand, her heart sinking as the atmosphere begins to shift.
"Kate?"
She has to be honest with him now. She owes him that. Deep breath. "I don't know."
"You don't know? You're off the force. You have no backup. You have no resources," he's getting himself worked up. "You have no gun."
She rolls onto her back, wincing, and pulls up the pyjamas. "I have a gun. A .38."
"Kate." He swings his legs off the bed, effectively turning his back to her. He rests his elbows on his knees and puts his face in his hands.
He's angry now, and she's angry with herself. She can't even have twelve hours of happiness without screwing it up.
"Rick, please, I understand, but – "
He rounds on her fiercely. "What you just said shows me that you don't understand. Last night you told me that this," he gestures abruptly to each of them, "this is what you want, and you're willing to put what we have above everything else," he pauses, reluctant, but goes on. "Just like I have." She opens her mouth, but he silences her with a gesture. "What am I supposed to do? I can't stand by and let you get yourself killed, and yet there's nothing I can do to stop you! Do you have any idea how frustrated and helpless that makes me feel? Do you know how scared I am?"
He's tearing up. The last twenty four hours have left their emotions raw, vulnerability leading to a hair trigger. She touches his back and feels his muscles trembling. "Rick."
"I watched you die, Kate. I sat in that fucking ambulance and watched you die!"
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, just back off!" He reins himself in. "I know it's easier said than done after all this time, but – "
"It's too late for that," she says quietly, her throat closing up. "You know that. I'm too far in. Even if I stop, they won't."
He shakes his head, though he knows it's true. "If you keep pursuing this, I'll go to Gates myself."
"I'm not her problem anymore."
"Regardless," he digs in.
She believes him. "Castle, don't do that." The last thing she needs is the NYPD in her face, rather than at her back.
"There must be some law they can detain you under."
She shakes her head. "Not unless I actually pulled off some kind of vigilante justice."
"I'll stop you, if no one else will," he says tightly.
Slowly, she scoots over to where she can risk wrapping her arms around him from behind, resting her head against the back of his shoulder, indulging her unbearable longing for him while he still lets her. "Rick, she was my mother. If it was your mother, or Alexis, would you ever stop?"
After a painful silence, he swallows hard. "No." He takes her hands in his. "And I wouldn't stop if it was you."
Her tears make dark stains on his t-shirt. "I'm so sorry."
His thumbs sweep lightly over her knuckles. "I know. We've been through that."
"It bears repeating. I'm so sorry. I wish I could stop. But neither of us will be safe until we find who's responsible." She pauses. "And if something does happen to me, I want you to promise me you won't go after them; you'll leave it to the professionals." She feels him tense again.
He turns, incredulous. "What? Like you're proposing to do?"
"I'm a professional."
"Beckett."
"Promise me."
"If I lost you, I don't know what I'd do. So no, I can't promise that, any more than you can promise to stop pursuing them yourself."
"Don't throw your life away, Castle."
He holds her gaze, and she knows he'll do whatever he's driven to do. Just like her. There's a relentlessness to his nature as surely as there is to her own. She feels physically sick at the cycle of violence they've fallen into. She has to make sure they don't get her, so that they don't get him, either. Or Alexis, or Martha, or the boys from the 12th. She has to beat them, to stop this, somehow.
"Castle, what are we gonna do?"
He wraps a warm, strong arm around her and pulls her close. He kisses her hair. "Today, we're going to rest, get you better, and be thankful for what we have, and what we're fighting for."
"So... Ice cream?"
He nods, and shows the beginning of a smile. "For starters."
End.