Chapter 3: Water torture

Beckett is perfectly satisfied with the audience's reaction to her acting, especially as now she doesn't need to act any more. She likes having her own way. Right now, her own way mostly encompasses kissing Castle for a while longer. So she does. Eventually, though, she has to stop. Mainly because only having one arm, and already having ruined this once by jarring her injured one, she can't continue this without risking ruining it again. She reluctantly stops kissing Castle and tucks back into his shoulder. Comfort hadn't been her primary objective in sitting on his knee, but she could use some of that too. Since his arm doesn't move from its gentle presence round her, that's achieved. If it weren't for the hole in her arm and the damn sling she'd do something a lot more obvious about it. Though… messing with Castle's head actually is rather fun. She wonders, still fuzzily, how long it'll take him to realise before she either mends or – less likely – takes pity on his confusion and tells him.

There's a short pause in proceedings, while they each organise their scattered thoughts. Close physical contact, and in Castle's case severe physical discomfort arising from that contact, is not really helpful. Beckett, still considerably more than somewhat impaired by the effects of Lortab, which have left her unable to concentrate on anything for very long, and by Castle's cologne, isn't really getting anywhere except to wish she had some toiletries and clothes. Suddenly she remembers something.

"You said you had a solution so that I could have a shower. What is it? I'd really, really like a shower." Castle grins widely. This, he can help with.

"I got some plastic and some tape. We can cover up your arm in the sling and tape it so no water gets in." Kate's looking at him with an extremely odd expression. Castle looks back, confused. He thought that would be thoroughly acceptable. "What's wrong?"

Right. Okay, Castle. He'll just cover her arm in plastic and tape it. Right. How exactly does he think he's going to do that without her taking off her – oops, his – t-shirt. Kisses are one thing. Topless in his living room – despite him having undressed her, which point she will return to later - is perhaps a touch further than she feels like going on a first non-date. At least with a wounded arm. But – she really wants a shower. And to wash her hair – oh. Ah. How's she going to do that with one hand? She deals with the easy point first. Or at least the one that will provide her with a moment's amusement.

"How were you planning to get the plastic on and tape it round my arm, Castle?"

"Well, if we just – oh." She watches with fascination and not a little malice as light – and embarrassment – dawns on him. "I didn't quite think that through." He bounces back remarkably quickly, though. "I know!" Oh Lord. Another Castle idea. "If I got a really big towel, and you – er – wrapped it round the – er – key areas –"

"You mean my chest." He squirms.

"Well, yes. But then you'd be – er – covered. And I'd be really, really careful." He looks ridiculously hopeful. It's clear he wants to help. And actually, that's not such a bad idea.

"Okay. Let's try it. But just one hint that you're trying to feel me up, or any suggestions about helping me wash" - Castle forcibly shuts his mouth on one of those – "and I will go home to my own apartment." Somehow. Probably. Possibly. Well, actually, not at all. She's not sure she can remember the address through these painkillers. But she doesn't want him starting something she can't finish.

Amazingly, it works, though there is considerable embarrassment, mostly on Castle's side, as they go. Beckett, despite her minatory admonishments and her extreme lack of desire to be topless near Castle in circumstances in which she is unable to use it to best advantage, is not particularly self-conscious about her body, and she really does want a shower. Which brings her back to the much more difficult problem of washing her hair.

"Castle, we've sorted the shower, but is there any way I can wash my hair too? Or do I need to book a salon appointment?"

"Well," he smirks. She's actually glad to see it. It means he's stopped fretting about upsetting her. Good. She doesn't need him tiptoeing around like she's at death's door. They've done that once. It wasn't a success. She likes their normal snark and banter mode far better.

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say, Kate."

"You were going to offer to help." He looks pious, and professionally offended.

"Was not." Beckett raises both eyebrows in a patented attitude of complete disbelief. "If you had ever been in my bathroom" –

"In your dreams, Castle." She ignores her earlier visit to his bathroom.

"Oh yes. In my dreams you have definitely been in my bathroom. Shall I tell you some of them? You were" –

"Shut up." Shut up, Castle, because she can't act on any of his undoubtedly remarkably interesting and equally undoubtedly arousing ideas, which is entirely unfair. She might not have chosen being shot (again) as a way of discovering how nice kissing Castle can be, (high stress rescue missions to save Ryan and Esposito notwithstanding) but, having realised, being made to wait to act on that because some lowlife winged her and she put her shoulder out is not helpful. These drugs are having an amazing effect on her thinking. She's sure she'd never have had any of these thoughts without their help.

He's stopped talking entirely. "Let's go back to talking about washing my hair, Castle. Nothing else." He pouts.

"In my bathroom there is a bath." Yes, okay. And in other news? Though a bath would be even nicer than a shower, if only she could get in and out it safely. Which she isn't willing to attempt. "And on that bath there are some taps." Ee-I-ee-I-oh? "And on those taps is a shower attachment." Yes, Macdonald, but that doesn't actually solve the problem here. She still only has one usable hand. If her hair were still short, now, she'd just about be able to do it in the shower. But it's not.

"I'm not seeing the answer here, Castle."

"After your shower, when you're dressed again – oh! I forgot, I got you some underwear" – she just stares at him and before she can open her mouth on the thoughts charging through her brain he carries on - "I can wash your hair for you with that." She gapes at him.

"You?" And then… "Underwear?" He ignores that. It seems the safest option.

"Yes, I can wash your hair." Her stunned face percolates. "Kate, how do you think Alexis's hair got washed? I did it." She's silent with surprise. "I even know about conditioner. For girls, that is. I don't suppose you'd like mine." She makes a peculiar noise. "What? How do you think my hair looks this good?" Beckett splutters.

"Okay. We'll try it. But Castle?"

"Yes?"

"Call me a girl again and I will lace your coffee with ipecac." He looks confused.

"I can't shoot you. Which I normally would do if you called me a girl." Castle grins very widely. Kate's almost back to normal. He'd thought that particular phrase would work.

"Now. Do you want me to wash your hair or not?" Phew. She's temporarily forgotten about the underwear question, and he is certainly not going to remind her. He likes his ears. They suit his face. They do not suit the floor, which is where they may end up if she remembers how the clean underwear has arrived.

"Please."

The shower is awkward but not – quite – impossible. Drying herself is also awkward but not – quite – impossible. Though on both counts there is a decidedly blue tinge to the air around Beckett by the time she's finished.

Swathed in her towel, she returns to the bedroom, from which Castle is tactfully and mercifully absent, and discovers that while she has been casting vile imprecations at the soap, he has left – ah. He's left an extremely attractive, very sexy and astonishingly expensive (she'd looked at these, looked at her bank balance, and reluctantly decided she wouldn't buy them this month) set of matched bra and panties on the bed. It's even a front-fastening bra. She considers the logistics of putting on the bra as she wriggles awkwardly into the panties. She can do this. She'd better do this, because the alternative is no bra at all. She is not asking Castle for help fastening her bra. Unfastening it, now, says her unhelpfully vivid and drugged imagination – that's not a good thought right now. She adds it to the pile of thoughts for when her arm is better, and returns to the logistical problem at hand. Or up arm, to be precise.

Okay. She's got this. She has the sense to adjust the shoulder straps before she starts. Maybe she could take the sling off for a moment – Ow, fuck, ow! Maybe not. Okay, try again. Strap over the slung arm, very carefully. So far, so good. Now, use the slung arm to hold that side in place and wiggle the other arm into its strap – thank God for flexibility and thrice-weekly yoga classes. Success. Now for fastening the front. The air acquires a renewed bluish aspect. Finally. Adjust the cups. Check the mirror to ensure it's all in order –

Wow. She really should have bought this set. She retrieves the Incredible Hulk t-shirt, wriggles into it rather more adroitly than earlier, looks at her cleaned, pressed, perfect pants – and ignores them.

Showers are a wonderful source of good ideas. Even if she'd spent most of it swearing at the scuttling soap.

Castle has been occupying his mind – or at least that small portion of it which is not screaming at him to go and help Kate shower – in designing a suitable lunch for an underfed, one-armed woman. Mac-n-cheese seems indicated. Ice cream, if Kate would like some. Comfort food. He's still more than a little worried about her. Notwithstanding the return of the Beckett snark, it's not at all like her to be as woebegone as she had been. It's not like her to kiss him either, very unfortunately. And – he hasn't heard the expected shriek of outrage at the underwear. That is very seriously worrying. He frowns. He contemplates going to enquire, but hasn't come to any decision when Kate solves the problem for him by re-emerging round the study door. Solves one problem, anyway. She's created a much more – pressing – problem.

"Would you mind washing my hair?" she says nonchalantly, just as if she doesn't know she's fried his brain. Why hasn't she put her pants on? He got them cleaned especially quickly. Is this some cruel payback for the underwear? She's still only wearing a mid thigh t-shirt – his t-shirt: he'd had it when he was sixteen and he'd had his first serial story published over eight editions of the school magazine, whichever school he was at then, he's lost track – and that is just not fair because he knows what she's wearing underneath and she's definitely wearing the bra. (There is a lack of a particular form of sway and that thought is not solving his current problem at all though he knows exactly what would and it is not currently possible so he'd better forget it.) There's a slightly odd undertone to that request. If it weren't this very confusing, drugged-up version of Kate, whom he understands even less than usual, he'd think it were husky. Almost… flirtatious?

"Please?" she says hopefully. He stutters out an automatic assent and stumbles after her to his bathroom. Five seconds later he stumbles out again and makes rapidly for Alexis's bathroom to raid her shampoo and conditioner. By the time he returns he's managed to recover some semblance of suavity. But his t-shirt never fitted him like that. It's not that it's fitting her form - the sling has put paid to that – but its length. Or lack of length. Those legs should be illegal. They're a lethal weapon. A new form of cortex-scrambler. Who needs death rays, when you could just show armies Kate Beckett's legs and watch said armies fall at her feet? Of course, then they'd start a new war over her. So maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea after all… He becomes aware of an expectant silence.

"A little help here?" Ah. Oh. Yes. Lots of help. Yes. Maybe she could help him – No! Hair washing. Just hair washing.

"Yes, okay, sorry. Just thinking about how best to do this." Saying how best to do you is unlikely to improve his health. "I'm afraid you'll need to sit on the floor and lean back over the bath." Kate complies. She's becoming aware that there may be blood still in her hair. Ewww. She leans back and tries not to show the feline smile that wants to slink over her face. He really hasn't thought this through, has he? She has. She tugs at the bottom of the t-shirt. To ensure it's out the way of the water, of course. The fact that it makes it stretch interestingly over her chest and gape at the neck is entirely accidental. Of course.

He really didn't think this through. Oh fuck. Except that's firmly (not a good word choice, Rick) off the agenda. How is he going to get through this when every time he looks up all he can see is straight down her – his, dammit! – t-shirt and tantalising more-than-glimpses of that underwear and he should have bought plain cotton - something that a nun might wear – or anything less seductive than he had done. Hoist on his own very painful petard. He concentrates very hard on getting Kate wet – no! – getting Kate's hair wet; on massaging her – no! – her head and lathering the shampoo; rinsing her hair – more wet – stroking conditioner through it. It would all be much, much easier if she weren't making happy little pleased noises that he would much rather hear because he was stroking other parts of her in bed – no!

He's never thought of hair washing as foreplay before. He might need to reconsider that. He breathes very slowly and does his very best to ignore Kate's – surely unwitting? – effect on him. The sooner he finishes this torture the better. It occurs to him that he'll need to comb it out for her. She'll never manage it with one arm. He's seen Alexis deal with her hair often enough to know that long hair needs two arms if it's not to be excruciatingly painful. He rinses Kate's hair thoroughly and wraps a towel round her head.

"Thank you," Kate says, and somehow it slithers off her tongue like silk slipping to the floor – no! The last image he needs in his mind is silk slipping off anything. Or anyone. Or one particular anyone who is still sitting on his bathroom floor – oh. Oh. Oh God. She needs help to stand up. Oh God. He can do this. He can.

Beckett would, in fact, prefer to have some help to stand up. It's not that she couldn't do it herself, if she had to, but leaning back over the bath is just a little awkward, and she needs to stretch out her spine. Still, looks like Castle's suddenly lost the plot again. She folds her legs elegantly under her and manages to achieve kneeling without hurting herself or inelegant collapse. Her concentration on avoiding attempting to use her right arm leaves her completely unaware that Castle has come around the bath to help her and is now – she abruptly discovers – standing right in front of her as she looks up. Mmmmm. That's a nice view. Very… contoured.

Ah. That's a very – interesting – relative position. But he must have imagined that swift flash of predatory satisfaction across Kate's face. Surely. Clues and proof notwithstanding. He's letting his own desires take over. Surely.

"Want some help up?" he squeaks.

Beckett considers an answer, or better still a gesture, which will make it quite clear both that she's noticed his – er – condition and that she isn't objecting to anything about it other than her inability to – er – assist him with curing it. Temporarily, of course. She acquires a feeling of irritation. She is not possessed of infinite – or any - patience, once she's decided on a course of action. But right now leaning forward is not going to help anything.

"Yes. Please." She extends her left hand to take his. Castle ignores it. Instead he crouches down, places both hands round her waist, and surprisingly athletically stands up again, taking her smoothly with him. Well now. That little display of flexibility was impressive. Maybe he's been doing yoga too. She's thought once or twice that he knew a little more about yoga than casual acquaintanceship would imply. Right now, though, she's mostly thinking that he's forgotten to let go, and further thinking that it feels rather nice. She's just about to look up, smile widely, run her tongue over her lips and hope that he takes the hint (mainly because without heels on she can't reach his face and she can't climb up him without hurting her thrice-damned arm) when he speaks.

"We" – who's this we? – "need to comb your hair out." Oh. Beckett's sure she could manage that herself. But having her hair washed had been very nice and if he wants to carry on then even that limited contact is much better than none.

"Okay," she says amiably. "How?"

"With a comb." She growls, very unamiably. "You sit down, I sit next to you or behind you."

"Are you sure you know how to do this?" Castle grins.

"Yes. Top class hairdresser here." Beckett growls again, accompanied by a roll of her eyes. "I'll even pay a forfeit" – Beckett looks very interestedly at him – "that does not involve my mutilation, injury or death" – she looks disappointed – "if I hurt you." He grins again. "You can't possibly shriek louder than Alexis used to."

"Okay. But I get to choose the forfeit." Which will involve bodily contact. Just not necessarily of the injurious variety.

Castle suddenly realises that he's still got his hands round Kate's waist and she hasn't maimed him yet. In the back of his mind, the circuits of deduction finally start to spark into life. His unconscious deductions take into account the sleep-soaked muttering and snuggling, her reaction to being kissed, her kissing him (doped or not) and finally the t-shirt and absence of pants; put them all together with him unaccountably not yet being dead, and finally come up with some very interesting conclusions indeed. It's a wilder theory than he's ever come up with before. Maybe that's why even his, very broad, conscious mind isn't listening. Because if it were listening it would be hearing Kate Beckett is trying to seduce you.

Combing out Kate's hair becomes another stern exercise in self-control. She's making contented, happy little noises again, even though he's refused to try to blow dry it. There's only so much he can cope with, and running his fingers through Kate's hair any more is well beyond that. It's probably just as well that the insistent, persistent yammering of his hindbrain hasn't made it to his cortex.

After their late lunch, Beckett dismally realises that although she is clean, that has nothing to do with being recovered. Her shoulder aches a lot, and she really ought to take a couple more painkillers. But she's going to step it down. The strong stuff is really giving her some very odd ideas.

"Castle, have you a couple of Tylenol?" He looks very sharply at her.

"Tylenol? Shouldn't you have a couple more Lortab?" She will not be looked at in that I-know-you're-minimising-this way. Even if it's true.

"Tylenol," she says firmly.

Thank you all. I really appreciate knowing what you all think.