Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

"Castle," she says, sitting next to him on the bed, her hand on his thigh. He's no longer weeping, but he still looks anguished. "Please, you have to stop apologizing. We were both at fault."

"We were both at fault in the argument we had in your apartment, but I'm to blame for not stopping you last night when you told me that you almost died."

"No, listen, listen." Her voice is low, her breath soft against his skin. "I came here hellbent on saying I was sorry, hellbent on telling you how much I wanted you. I was pretty much unstoppable, you know, when I launched myself at you and kissed you. And you did try to stop me at first, held me away. But your face, Castle, your face. There was so much hurt there and I couldn't bear it. I had to touch your lips and–"

"And that was it. That undid me. And when I saw your scar–the bullet, where the bullet hit you. I don't know, everything just fell away then. I couldn't think about anything but you, and nothing else mattered."

"Exactly," she says, leaning against his shoulder and kissing his jaw.

"But I undressed you, Kate. I peeled everything off you. And look–" he points to the raw, purple splotch that spreads across her hipbone, but doesn't dare touch it. "Why didn't I see this? Any of this?"

"It was dark, Castle. Dark. And all the bruises probably look much worse, more vivid, today then they did yesterday. We were frantic last night, trying to make up for so much. For all you knew 'I almost died' meant that Maddox took a shot at me and missed. How could you have known that he threw me down over and over and over and left me hanging from a roof? If we'd been sitting in the kitchen having a cup of coffee instead of devouring each other in here? I'd have been ashamed to tell you what he did, that he got the better of me despite all my training."

He turns towards her and takes her face in his hands. "You're in pain now, aren't you? Physical pain. Tell me."

She nods, and tilts her head into his right palm.

"Agonizing?"

"Not agonizing."

"But serious pain."

"Yes."

"With all the things we did to each other last night, what I did, you never said–. I didn't–. Did I hurt you?" He hears his voice crack. He's going to cry again.

"No. No, you didn't. I was so far gone that I didn't feel anything but a rush of happiness and lust and excitement and–." She'd almost said "love," but held it back. Maybe she shouldn't have. "And I still do. But I also hurt, just about everywhere. I think if I take some aspirin and a long shower it'll help."

"Take a long shower. I'll take it with you, but then we're going to the ER."

"No."

"Kate–"

"I don't want to explain what happened to me. I don't want it on a record somewhere. I'm not a cop any more, Castle."

"Then I'll take you to my doctor."

"By the time you get an appointment, I'll be fine."

"I'll get you an appointment for today. That's one of the perks of having a lot of money. Which also buys you discretion." He holds her look for a long time. "Okay?"

"Okay."

A few minutes later, they're in the Taj Mahal of showers. She's learned how soft his hands are, but his tenderness when he washes her back and the backs of her legs almost brings her to tears. She can hear the sharp intake of his breath when he addresses each scrape, welt, cut, or bruise. Even over the noise of the water she can hear him whisper angrily, "I will fucking kill this guy."

It's only when she's wrapped up in the fluffiest towel she's ever encountered that she remembers her clothes, which are still on the bedroom floor where Castle dropped them last night, and must also be wet. She pokes her head out of the bathroom door and sees him on the phone.

"Yes, ten o'clock. That's great. Thanks again. I owe you."

"Castle?"

"Good news. Doctor Bauer can see you in–" he checks his watch. "An hour and a half."

"My clothes. I'm sorry. They're in a soggy heap on your floor."

"I'll put them in the dryer while you're drying your hair," he assures her. "And if they're wrinkled, I'll iron them."

"You can iron?"

"I learned when I was twelve and my mother was in summer stock. It gave me an excuse to go in the chorus girls' dressing room."

"I bet it did."

He stops suddenly, her pants draped over his arm, and pivots towards her. "Wait a minute. My mother. Why is my mother here? She's supposed to be in the Hamptons. And she's usually still in bed at this hour."

Oh, God. Her brain had ceded to her body last night, and hasn't recovered. How can it when Castle is standing only inches away from her wearing nothing but a towel, his skin glowing, a few drops of water shimmering on his deltoids? She has to tell him, almost choking. "Not just Martha."

"What?"

"It's not just Martha who's here. Alexis."

"Alexis? No, she won't be home for hours. She and all her friends are celebrating graduation. She'll probably drag herself through the door at noon and go to bed."

She wishes that she'd brought the coffee in here, not left it in the kitchen where it must be cold and undrinkable by now. She needs strength to do what she has to do, but she'll have to gut it out caffeine-free. "Castle," she says, sitting on the bed again and patting the spot next to her. "Come here. I've really screwed things up with your daughter." All she sees in his eyes now is confusion. "Please, sit down with me."

He does sit down, hard. "I don't understand."

She laces her fingers through his as if to anchor him to her. What if he bolts? His daughter is the most important person in his life, and she, Katherine Lovesick Idiot Houghton Beckett, may have just written herself out of it. "When I woke up a while ago–" a while ago? it feels like a year–"I decided to make us coffee. Because, you know, coffee is our–." Maybe it's suddenly coffee was, not is. Maybe she and Castle are a were before they've had a chance to be an are. "I, um, went out to the kitchen not even thinking to put some clothes on. Not thinking at all, except about you." Maybe they're done now. Maybe last night was the end of everything, instead of the beginning. She's working hard not to tremble. "Somewhere in the back of my mind I must have remembered–again, if I'd been thinking, which I wasn't–that we were alone here. So anyway, I was waiting for the coffee to brew and didn't even hear the front door open and then there they were. Your mother. And Alexis. They both looked stunned. Shocked, really, not that I blame them. And they stared at me. That was when I realized that I was naked." She comes to a desperate halt. Surely he'll say something now.

He turns his head a fraction of an inch and blinks. She feels as if she's watching him in slow-motion.

"And?" he asks, at last.

"And?"

"And what happened?"

Oh, shit. There's no way she's going to tell him what Alexis said, her one furious sentence. No wonder Dad didn't answer the phone. She might as well throw acid in his face. "Alexis looked furious and went to her room. I don't blame her."

"Alexis and my mother came home together?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I mean, I guess you'll have to ask Martha."

"You must have an idea. You're a detective."

She makes the leap, or part of one. "I think maybe Alexis got a little drunk at the party. And maybe she–I don't know, Castle."

He looks at his feet, which at the moment is preferable to him looking at her. "Drunk?" he directs his question to the floor. The air is heavy. She feels as if something is pressing down on her chest.

"Maybe. I saw her for only a few seconds, but she had, a, uh, hungover look. What kid doesn't go a tiny bit wild at a post-graduation party? Not wild, wild. Not Alexis. But a little." For the second time this morning she wishes that something would swallow her whole, or vaporize her. She's going to leave the detecting to him.

"Maybe she called my mother? Why didn't she call me?"

B-I-N-G-O. She's not saying a word.

He grabs his phone from his back pocket and scrolls through missed calls. "Oh, my God, she called me four times." He pauses. "And left me four voicemails." As he clicks on each one, beginning with the oldest, rapidly shifting emotions move across his face. He puts down the phone, but it's a least a minute before he speaks again. "You were right. Party got a little out of hand and she wanted me to pick her up. Finally called my mother."

"I'm sorry, Castle. I'm so sorry." Wasn't that precisely what she'd said when she'd come through the door and kissed him? "This is totally my fault."

"What's your fault? I'm her father. I'm a parent. It's my job to leave my phone on, have it on me, in case she needs me." He shakes his head. Another silence. "But why was she mad at you? You didn't do anything."

Is he crazy? "Really?"

"You're not responsible for my phone. I left it in the living room and I didn't hear it. From in here." He stares at the bed.

"It's not that, Castle. It's that she found me naked. In her house. Where she lives. And even with a hangover she could figure out why."

"I'm going to go talk to her."

"Let her be, for right now. I'm sure she's asleep. Talk to her later." When I'm not here, she doesn't say. "I'll get dressed, go to your doctor, and get out of your hair."

"Kate, you're not in my hair. I'm just–. You're right, she must be asleep." He gets to his feet, puts on his robe, and picks up the rest of her clothes from the floor. "I'm going to put these in the dryer. And talk to my mother."

He's already out the door. Martha will tell him what Alexis said.

If it were possible to hear a heart sink, she'd have woken the dead.

TBC

A/N Thank you so much for your enthusiasm for this little story. I was happily surprised to see how many of you, like me, wondered why Beckett's injuries were completely ignored in "Always" and "After the Storm." Oh, and as you will have inferred, this isn't a 2-shot after all!