4: Time for bed

After Beckett has reached for her coffee, yipped with pain, and is now sitting in a frozen position which is clearly the only one which is moderately pain-free, Castle can't take it any longer. He shifts the table far closer – which he should have thought of earlier – and gets a tired, still-beautiful, genuine smile for his action.

"Thanks," she sighs.

"Still hurting?"

"Yeah. Another couple of weeks, they said."

"More painkillers?"

"Too early. I'll take them just before bedtime. That way I might get some sleep."

Castle has a thought. "Did you tell Montgomery you got beaten up again?" Beckett looks first surprised, then a little guilty.

"No, I'll tell him tomorrow when I get into the bullpen."

"What?"

"When I get into work."

"You're going to work? With broken ribs?"

"Yes. I'm on desk duty anyway, so – oh, shit."

"What?"

"I was supposed to be on desk duty today. Montgomery is not going to be happy with me." She starts to shrug unhappily, and stops, not quite soon enough, hissing. Castle puts a sympathetic arm around her shoulders, and pats gently.

"What's likely to happen?" he asks, and notes that Beckett either isn't objecting to or hasn't noticed the arm. He pats a little more. There's a twitch, as if she was going to shrug again and thought better of it.

"Dunno. He could extend the desk duty, he could put me on medical leave, he could suspend me for disobeying orders."

"All of which have the same outcome, really, don't they? No chasing killers." Castle smirks evilly. "Paperwork for you, Detective Beckett." She growls half-heartedly.

"I'm not sure I could chase down an arthritic snail," she humphs. "And if I did try you'd probably tell me not to."

"Yep," grins Castle. "No snail chasing. It's a very dangerous activity, snail chasing. You might get hurt."

"Do snails bite?" she says very cynically. "No? Or carry guns? Still no? Then I don't think it's likely."

"More likely you'd slip on the slime and fall flat on your face. So no snail chasing."

Beckett emits another humph.

"I can't do anything," she complains. "I can't even change position without wincing. All I can do is sit up straight or lie down flat on my back."

Castle grins lasciviously and waggles his eyebrows villainously for good measure. "Well, Beckett, I can think of several things you could do in that position…" He watches the colour wash through her face with amusement.

"If it wouldn't hurt if I tried, I'd shoot you for that."

Castle moves a preventative distance away. He wouldn't put it past Beckett to attack and only then remember that it hurts. Of course, he could kiss it better if it did…. He should have thought of that ten minutes ago. He metaphorically beats himself over the head for his own stupidity.

"You wouldn't want to shoot me, Beckett. You'd just want more."

Beckett makes a disgusted noise at his conceit but remembers not to wreak revenge on his ears or nose, much to Castle's disappointment. Another potential opportunity to kiss her gone begging.

"You are so full of it."

"Well, actually, it would be you who would be" –

"Shut up, Castle." He smirks evilly at her from a safe distance, and when she wrinkles her nose at him decides that it's not going to be instantly fatal to return. He drapes his arm back round her, resisting the urge to hug.

"What's this?" Beckett snips.

"Consolation," Castle says airily. "Comfort. Cheer. Cosiness. Care."

"Enough with the Websters recitation, Castle. Explain."

"Nope," he says. Cheerily. "Not explaining. You didn't explain to me and I'm not explaining to you. Fair's fair."

"I didn't explain what?"

"You wouldn't explain why it didn't matter that you sleepwalked into my bed. So I'm not going to explain why I'm cuddling you."

"Fine," humphs Beckett. But she hasn't pulled away (it probably hurts to move, but Castle will take that as a sign that the Universe is on his side, for once) and she hasn't told him to move away. He concludes that she likes being cuddled but won't admit it. She likes two-pump sugar free vanilla grande skim lattes, and won't admit that to him either, but she drinks them every time they appear and makes happy, sexy little noises as she does.

Some time later Castle has sneakily achieved complete contact by sliding fractions closer every time Beckett winces or he feels the need to shift a little to get comfortable. It helps that Beckett is so very tired, because she's now leaning on his arm more than he is cuddling her and Castle doesn't think it would take very much for her to lay her head on his shoulder and close her eyes. He considers – er – encouragement in the form of a small amount of stroking of her hair, and on finding that to be a good plan does so.

Amazingly, it seems that Beckett has run out of desire or ability to object. Even more amazingly, her only response is simply to make a muted, contented little purr and do exactly what Castle had hoped: to wit lay her head on his shoulder, her body propped straight up against his so that she doesn't move and hurt herself, and close her eyes. It's all very…peaceful. Not quite what he'd imagined his first chance of snuggling up to Beckett might be like, but then again he hadn't exactly imagined his first opportunity of having her in his bed would be the way that had been, either.

Castle daydreams happily for a little while, then looks at his watch and discovers that it's well into the evening. Looking at his watch, an expensive but discreetly tasteful Vacherin-Constantin, he also remembers that tomorrow he'd better see Michael and finish off Beckett's watch. She'll be pleased to get it back, he expects, and he'll have helped. He doesn't know why it should be so important to him that he helps in the repair, rather than simply finding the pieces, taking them to Michael, and asking him to sort it at Castle's expense, but it is. He wants to do something tangible, not just throw money at the problem.

Anyway, that's for tomorrow. If it's a paperwork day – and Beckett will only have paperwork days for the next three weeks (he wonders exactly what she's going to tell Montgomery) – then he won't be expected in the bullpen, there will be no interrogation as to why he's ducking out of something interesting, and he will be able to present Beckett with her watch as a lovely surprise. Right now, he'd better work out how to – oh. How to wake Beckett up. Especially since his arm, quite without his volition, has dropped down so that his hand is resting on her waist. She's asleep, in his arm, on his couch, in his loft. It could only be better if the next place they both went was his bed. Without the broken ribs.

He ponders for a moment, and then another. The second moment is definitely sheer procrastination: he likes this cuddled-up contentment and as soon as he wakes Beckett it will be gone. Eventually conscience overcomes cuddles and he pats Beckett on the cheek. It has no effect whatsoever. Then he tugs her hair, very gently. He can't wiggle her shoulder – or any of the rest of her torso – for fear of doing more damage, and he's equally scared simply to lift her up and take her to the guest room, for the same reason.

Tugging gently has the effect of Beckett's eyes half opening, and a sleep-soaked growl of general unamusement with the situation.

"Wake up, Beckett."

"Ugh."

"Wake up."

" 'S not morning."

"No, it's evening, and you need to go to bed. This is my couch, not a bed."

"Urrgh. Go 'way."

"Beckett, I always thought you'd wake up instantly. You're harder to wake than a hibernating bear."

"Not a bear." Her eyelids drop again. "You're a bear. Teddy bear."

This is not necessarily flattering. He'd rather be a tiger, or a wolf. Something a bit more – well, macho – than a teddy bear. Still, he'll show her that he's no soft toy. So to speak. Just – not now. Whatever his body thinks.

"Beckett, wake up!" he says firmly.

"Am awake. Whatisit?"

"It's time you went to bed. You've been asleep on my shoulder for half an hour. You're drooling, and my shirt's getting soggy." That's a total lie.

"What? Drooling? Asleep?" That's much more like it. Beckett's instinctive snap of response, firmly in position. "I don't believe you."

"You were definitely asleep."

"Oh."

"It was really interesting. You don't look ferocious at all when you're asleep. More – cute."

"Cute? Cute?" Seems like that's really woken her up. "I am not cute. Kittens are cute. Puppies are cute. Small children are very occasionally cute, from a safe distance. I am not cute."

"Am I cute?" Castle asks provocatively.

There's a stunned pause. He doesn't do this, but today he can because kisses were allowed and hugs were allowed and Kate Beckett sleepwalked (sleptwalked?) into his bed. And she's not answering and she's blushing (again) and she looks so adorably flustered that he's hard put not to laugh. Or kiss her. Or both.

"Stunned into silence by my rugged handsomeness, hmm?"

"It's certainly not by your modesty, Castle."

"So it is my rugged good looks, then."

"What?"

"You just said so."

"I didn't."

"You did." Castle assumes an expression of smug superiority. "I knew you liked me."

"I'm going to bed," Beckett humphs. Castle very nearly says Whose bed?, but manages to stop the words before they exit his mouth as an immediate predecessor to life exiting his body. He detaches his arm from Beckett's shoulders and stands up, carefully so as not to bounce the couch and hurt Beckett.

He extends both hands. "Come on, then. I'll help you stand up." There's a tiny hesitation, then she puts her own hands into his and waits. "I'll do the lifting. You just concentrate on moving in a way that doesn't hurt. Too much," he hastily adds at her glare. She shifts, and winces.

"Okay, change of plan. Don't move."

"How am I supposed to stand – what are you doing?"

Castle has simply leaned down, taken a firm grip around her waist below any ribs that might be broken or otherwise damaged, and lifted her up smoothly without Beckett doing anything at all.

"There," he says smugly. "All done. Told you I could lift you without any trouble."

Beckett's mouth is opening and shutting without any words or indeed sound emerging, rather like a stranded goldfish. "Thank you," finally emerges, in a strangulated noise best described as a glurp. She doesn't seem to know what to do with herself or her hands, which are currently resting on Castle's shoulders.

Castle, on the other hand, knows exactly what to do with his hands: leave them exactly where they are on Beckett's slim waist, possibly tightening them a little just to ensure she doesn't run away yet. In fact – he steps the tiny distance closer that tucks her against him while keeping her straight and unhurt – he could usefully put one hand right round her waist and the other at the back of her neck, and then it would be even more sensible to run that hand up into her hair, which is delightfully soft and strokable… and now he has a problem. Well, two problems.

Problem one is that Beckett is now in the perfect position to be kissed or to be held comfortingly against him and petted consolingly. Decisions, decisions. Or maybe he could do both? Problem two is that any second now she'll notice just how much Castle likes having her tucked against him, and it's only too likely that she'll object. It would be nice if she didn't, but he's never been that lucky up till now and he doesn't think that's about to change.

Oh well. He's taken so many chances in the last few hours that one more won't matter. He curves his hand round the base of her skull and tips her head up while holding the rest of her still and drops a careful, delicate and undemanding kiss on her lips.

She tastes of coffee and desire and ambrosia. One small taste and he is instantly, permanently addicted. So he kisses her again because he can't face the thought that he might only ever get this one chance to kiss her and only have done so once but astonishingly the seam of her soft lips has opened to him and she's teasing him to open up for her.

This kiss is not careful, delicate or undemanding. This kiss carries all his – and, it seems, all her – pent-up desire, frustration, terror and need: all surging up under the breaking strain of the last three or four days. This kiss is life-changing, life-affirming.

And this kiss has to stop. If it doesn't stop right now, it won't stop till both of them are naked in bed and that is still a very bad idea because she is hurt. But he wishes very strongly that he had never given in to the temptation to kiss her at all because she won't be mended for two or three weeks and he may not survive that long.

Fortunately it appears that Beckett has drawn the same conclusions that he has. Her hands have dropped from his neck and she's stopped invading his mouth as he has stopped invading hers.

"We shouldn't," she murmurs. But she isn't moving away.

"We should," Castle contradicts, "but not when you have broken ribs." Since she hasn't moved away in the slightest, he strokes her hair softly to point his moral. She is conspicuously not disagreeing with him now.

"I should go to bed." Not that she seems to be doing that either.

"You should." But he doesn't stop petting, and he doesn't let go. He does loosen his arms, marginally, but Beckett doesn't take advantage of that to step back. "You should," he says again, and this time does drop his hands.

"Yeah," she agrees, and takes a cautious step towards the stairs, leaving Castle watching her as she creaks upstairs, so different from her normal, fast, fluid strides.

Castle is softly snoring in his bed when he's woken by a small noise. His bleary gaze at the clock tells him it's two a.m. His bleary brain tells him that there shouldn't be small noises in his bed that aren't him. When he turns over, he finds that it's a sleeping Beckett. That's okay then. He snuggles up to her and re-closes his eyes.

A sleeping Beckett? How did this happen without him noticing? He prods her to see if she's real, and/or really asleep.

"Ow! Ow, ow, owwww. Don't do that, Castle."

"You're awake."

"Yeah. Someone jabbed me in the ribs and woke me."

"You're here. Why are you here?" There's an unintelligible mutter. "Say again?" More muttering. "C'mon, why? You can't possibly have designs on my gorgeously sculpted" – there's a rude noise – "body with broken ribs, I don't think you were sleepwalking this time for the same reason, so why are you in my bed?"

"I…"

"Mmmm?"

"I… I-kept-thinking-about-it-and-you-saved-my-life-and-I-needed-you-there-so-I-could-sleep." Uh? That's complicated. He can't cope with complicated when he's still mostly asleep. He takes the easy route.

"Okay. Here I am. Snuggle in and go to sleep." A slim hand creeps into his.

"Can't snuggle," she yawns. "It hurts. This'll do for now." Her fingers close around his hand. It feels very nice. Natural. And it could only have been any more arousing if her fingers had closed around somewhere else. His fingers fold over her hand in return. Shortly, both hands are limp and there's no noise except the soft sounds of sleep and an occasional ouch when Beckett tries to move and wakes herself with the consequent wince.

In the morning Beckett's hand is no longer in his. This appears to be because his hand has, entirely without his knowledge, betaken itself off to rest on Beckett's stomach. At least, even in sleep, he hasn't wrapped himself around her and cuddled her in tightly. He wonders vaguely how he managed to exert self-control in sleep, when it's so very hard to do so when he's awake. Maybe his subconscious has more morals than his conscious mind.

He's about to drift back to sleep when he realises that the reason he's awake at all is that Beckett is waking up.

"Where ya goin'," he slurs. "Stay here with me."

"Work."

"Oh. 'Kay." He closes his eyes again as she extracts herself very carefully from the bed. Then he slams them open. Beckett spent the whole night (well, nearly) in his bed, holding his hand, and admitting she needed him – and he's sleeping when she's waking up? No, no, no. He sits up and peers at the very pretty sight of Beckett in – ooohhhh – a silky sleep tee and shorts. She must have bought those. He doesn't remember them in the dry-cleaning/salvageable pile. "Breakfast?"

"I don't want to be any trouble."

"No trouble. Everyone has breakfast here."

Beckett glances at her wrist in what's clearly a habitual gesture and makes a noise that starts as annoyance and finishes in misery.

"What time is it?" she asks, looking around for some form of clock and failing to spot the one on Castle's nightstand, mainly because Castle himself is in the way.

"Quarter to six."

"I don't have time. I need to get in before Montgomery and I need a shower and to dress and that's all going to take too long because – ow! – it hurts to move." She doesn't mention the automatic look at her wrist. The absence is very telling.

"Okay," says Castle, a little disappointed. "Did you say paperwork all day?"

"If I'm even allowed in the precinct after Montgomery's finished with me."

"Let me know," he says, casually, as if it's not important.

" 'Kay," drifts back from Beckett's route to the upstairs bathroom, followed by a sharp breath indicative of an incautious movement. With astonishing self-control and not-at-all astonishing reluctance, Castle doesn't follow. Instead he wanders off to the kitchen and, since he has plenty of time, mixes up pancake batter for whoever might want breakfast, a little later. Alexis is bound to want something. His mother – well. He checks the fridge for tomato juice.

When she comes back down, washed and dressed and clearly in a hurry, Beckett still sidles over to Castle. "You got my clothes," she says gratefully. "More than I thought had been saved. Thank you." And to his further astonishment – he'll be permanently astonished, at this rate: Mr Astonished, with his brows glued to the ceiling and jaw to the floor – she plants a brief, embarrassed, kiss on his cheek and departs, blushing furiously. He's still patting the spot when his teen-girl brain squealing of she kissed me she kissed me is silenced by the fuss and bustle of an ordinary morning with his redheads wanting breakfast and chattering and generally killing his love-struck mood.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers, and to everyone who has told me about New Orleans.