Chapter 10

Beckett woke in an unfamiliar room, alone, surrounded by plentiful pillows and the almost-overwhelming aroma of Castle's very familiar cologne. Gradually her sleepy eyes attained focus, and she looked around an enormous room, with another en-suite off to one side, and a completely eclectic decor featuring a full-size anchor. She lay there for a few minutes, trying to work out why she was in that room rather than the one in which she'd begun, until memory floated back and the previous night's happenings re-emerged. So there she was, having wept all down him, tucked up in Castle's bed. It was worryingly comforting.

She emerged from the bed, made herself more comfortable, and – there was no point in faked modesty, after all: he'd slept with her in the sloppy tee all night and anyway she was sure he'd seen her naked, whatever he had said, when he'd fished her out of her blown-up bathtub – wandered out to try and find her way to the kitchen, where there was sure to be coffee.

After a couple of wrong turns – the house (mansion?) was enormous and last night she'd been in no state to explore or remember anything – she found the kitchen and a familiar coffee machine, just the same as at the loft. There was no sign of Castle, but she could make that machine function, and so, awkwardly, she did. Clasping her coffee close to her – dropping it would not improve anything – she followed the faintly-remembered route from last night out and went past the empty table, round the corner to the same sitting area, and found both couch and Castle, tapping at his laptop and alternating frowns with scowls. She surmised that he was editing, and didn't disturb him: sitting safely at the other end and sipping her coffee. From the heat of the day, it was late morning at least – where was her watch?

Oh. How could she possibly have forgotten? She hadn't had her watch the previous day. Or the day before that. Not, in fact, since she'd left the cabin. She hadn't... she couldn't bear to pick it up: to remember when he'd got dry. So she'd left it with her brief note up at the cabin in the Catskills. This is for the life I saved. Except she hadn't kept it safe, had she? He was head down in whisky all over again, and this time he'd already dragged in her one constant, Castle. Last time... O'Leary had stayed – been kept – well clear, though when it had all come crashing down he'd been there to pick her up and steer her home. She'd almost pushed away his friendship over that, till it had been clear that he wouldn't talk and wouldn't judge and wouldn't ever, ever ask: and then she'd told him just enough, and told him why she couldn't talk about it more, and it had been okay, and then better, and then he'd become her best friend...

At least until Castle had come along.

But her father had dragged Castle into the mess that was their life – definition of the Beckett family, that, she thought bitterly. Look up mess in the dictionary – with dysfunctional – and you would find Beckett. She'd wanted Castle left out of it, and her father had laid into him. Then, as soon as he'd said come up here she'd gone trotting off without a backwards glance and how could she stop him getting into the mess? She hadn't even thought of that: he'd offered, she'd practically bitten his arm off in her haste to accept, just to be with him and lean on a broad, strong shoulder...

Fuck. Exactly what she hadn't wanted to do. And what had she done? Fallen off the train into his arms and burst into tears like some feeble idiot.

She looked at her empty wrist again, as a drip fell on it. Under the guise of needing to find more coffee, she rose and left Castle to his work, went back inside and managed to find her room, fell on the bed and wept, silently. She'd waited so long for her father to be sober, counted the days and hoped beyond all sense and reason, buried herself in work to stop herself calling him every minute after he exited rehab... worn his watch every day since he'd given her it.

Until she'd left him to it, with his watch. All over again.

Castle had noticed Beckett sit down, but, desperately needing to focus on his edits, which were complex and in at least one case had identified a major timing issue which required substantial corrections, had left her to her coffee, knowing that most of the time she needed to down three cups before she attained sense, never mind civility. When he looked up again, some time later, she wasn't there.

He checked the time – ugh, long past lunchtime – and padded off to the kitchen to find some sustenance. On the counter was a single, used, coffee mug and not the slightest hint of anything else. He recalled that Beckett had been rather underweight when he'd scooped her up the previous night – correction, she'd been horribly lighter than he'd been expecting – deduced that she hadn't had lunch, and considered the extensive contents of the fridge and cupboards.

"Beckett?" he called. "Lunch time. What do you want?"

Answer came there none. Castle padded softly through to see whether he could find her, and found only a shut bedroom door, which he contemplated with some dismay. He had promised not to smother her, to let her do it for herself. On the other hand, she couldn't be left to starve through misery. He tapped briskly on the door, and hoped that he'd made the right choice.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Beckett, it's lunchtime. Do you want anything?"

There was a noticeable pause. "Oh." As if she hadn't noticed the time. "Yeah. Give me a minute."

"Sure. I'll be in the kitchen."

Some several minutes later Beckett dragged in. She was wearing denim short-shorts and an old t-shirt, which wouldn't have worried Castle at all (especially not the Daisy Duke style shorts, which showed off her excellent legs to best effect) except that she had on precisely no make-up and her eyes were red. He didn't comment, though all he wanted to do was hug her and make it all better.

"We've got lots of food. French bread, cheese, meat... ooohhhh, cold meat pies... salad... fruit – I've got strawberries, Beckett! Would you like a strawberry milkshake? There's lots of ice cream."

"Uh?" she said.

"Milkshakes?"

"Oh... yes, please."

"And food. No burgers, but I could take some out the freezer and fix them on the grill for dinner... What do you want to eat for lunch?"

There was a rather uncomfortable pause. Castle waited, perfectly certain that Beckett didn't want to eat anything and didn't want to admit it to him.

"The bread and cheese, please, and salad. Can I take something out?"

"Give me a minute to cut it, and then you can take the bread."

Castle efficiently sliced the baguette into tartines, plopped them on a plate, and handed it to Beckett, who departed with it. As soon as she'd gone, he mixed the salad and opened the cheese, put out some pie because he loved it and maybe she'd have some, and when she returned handed her the salad.

"Milkshakes coming right up."

"Thanks."

By the time all the food was on the table, the milkshakes were ready too. Castle tipped the mix into two very tall glasses, found a couple of straws, and brought them out. Beckett hadn't so much as touched a lettuce leaf. Under his eye, she took a slice of bread and picked out some salad, arranging it on the bread very slowly. Castle declined to comment, and concentrated on cutting a slice of the pie. When he looked up again, a small amount of cheese had joined the salad. He took some greens, and wondered how to start a conversation that wouldn't include for God's sake eat something, you're a skeleton in training. She wasn't even trying her milkshake, though her hands were on the glass.

It took him another moment to realise that she wasn't wearing her watch. He couldn't recall if she'd been wearing it yesterday. He remembered very clearly the night she'd told him why she wore it: let him in for a minute – and then shut him out again. My dad took her death hard. He's sober now. Five years. So, this is for the life that I saved. Uh-oh. Her dad wasn't sober any more. And Beckett wasn't wearing the watch. He didn't say any of that.

"I made you one of my extra-special milkshakes with fresh strawberries and the very best vanilla ice cream and you won't even taste it," he whined instead. "Don't mermaids drink milkshakes?"

Her eyes came up from the table. "There are no such things as mermaids, Castle! And even if there were, I'm not one of them."

He pouted at her, adorably. "In that case you could at least try the milkshake. It's very unkind of you to ignore it."

"Ohhhh!" Beckett expostulated. "Okay then. I was thinking. We don't all need to shovel down food like a starving tyrannosaur."

"Is that what Espo does?" She ignored that.

"I'll get there."

He simply widened his eyes and produced his best pleading puppy-dog look. It never failed.

It never failed to irritate Beckett, that was. It didn't fail that time, either. She positively growled at him, which was a huge improvement from silent misery. "Stop it. You look ridiculous."

"Everyone else says I look adorable," Castle riposted. "Do you need your eyes checked?"

"No. Trying to look cute doesn't work on cops. It's just childish."

"Happiness keeps the wrinkles away, and children still understand the wonder of the world around them," he said, deliberately sententious. She growled again, but in between the two growls she'd gulped down a goodly proportion of the milkshake, though the open sandwich hadn't risen from her plate. He'd take that. At least it was some nourishment, and here in the sunshine it was horribly clear that she was still too thin and far, far too tired.

"Anyway, you love my behaviour," he added provocatively. She didn't reply. "See, you can't deny it." Still no answer. "So when we've eaten our lunch" – he stressed eaten, but she didn't twitch – "I'll make coffee and we can sit round the corner and dabble our toes in the pool." He had a thought. "How long is that thing on for anyway?"

"It's been a month. I guess I should call the doctor to see if I can get it off."

"Sure. I've got a doctor nearby who can take the cast off, rather than go all the way back to Manhattan for a ten-minute job." He grinned. "Then you can go swimming. What's the point of the pool if you can't use it?"

"You can use it. I'll sunbathe."

"Sunbathe?" he managed not to squeak. "Like, in a bikini sunbathe?"

"Yep."

"You'll need lotion on." He smiled rakishly, eyes bright blue and small crinkles appearing round them. "Since you can't do it, I'll just have to do it for you. Anyway, you said you'd like it if I rubbed lotion into you." He remembered that conversation very clearly. Right up till the point Jim Beckett had dropped something and the whole thing had gone south in a hurry. "Do you need help with the bikini?"

"No, I do not." That was a shame. He'd happily have helped her change.

"Well, if it's too difficult, this corner is totally private so you could leave it off," he said helpfully.

From the searing glare, Beckett didn't find that as helpful as he did. On the other hand, she'd taken a bite – well, more of a vicious chomp actually - of her sandwich, and the rest of it was disappearing down her throat. It was followed by a slice of the pie, the milkshake level dropped, and Castle noted with considerable relief that once she had started to eat, she was clearly hungry. She disposed of another sandwich and more of his excellent pie in short order, and sat back.

"Better?"

"Yep."

"So now do I get to see the bikini?"

She rolled her eyes despairingly. "First, I'm going to call my doctor. Then..." she trailed off enticingly.

"Bikini?" Castle asked hopefully.

"I don't know. I might go for a walk on the beach." She stopped. "Oh. I need to do the physio exercises."

The expression on her face suggested that she didn't want to do them with an audience. Castle just about got that. Weakness wasn't a Beckett-approved trait, and displaying it still less so.

"Okay, well, do them by the pool while I clear up and finish off my edits. Ugh," he added gloomily. "I hate edits."

Beckett smirked at him, though it was a weak effort compared with those she'd produced before her shooting. "Not so perfect a writer after all?"

Castle grumbled gently. "Go do your exercises. Or call the doctor." He humphed at her till she stood up and went through into the house. Shortly, as he cleared up, he heard the cadence of conversation, and then – oh, god, that doesn't sound good – the hard clack of irritated-Beckett stride.

"What's up?"

"They won't take it off till they've done an X-ray to check," she spat. "It's fine. I don't need an X-ray, I just need them to take it off."

"We can get that done here, you know," he placated. "Do you want to call or shall I?"

The solution stopped her in her tracks. "We can? I didn't think – your doctor can do an X-ray?"

"Sure. So you don't have to trek back to Manhattan. Give your guy" –

"Woman. This is 2011, not 1950" –

"Whatever. Give them a call and see if they'll send the record up – can they e-mail it? Wait a minute till I call my guy and get their e-mail."

Castle, having been given a way to help without actually interfering, was dialling before Beckett could open her mouth. Three minutes later, he handed her the e-mail address, and she departed to have a less aggravated conversation with her own doctor.

"They'll e-mail them. Um... could you make me an appointment, please? They likely won't see me if I ask."

Castle called the practice again, explained briefly, and handed the phone across to Beckett, who wandered off out of earshot, by which he was a tad surprised. He wasn't aware that cast removal was particularly sensitive.

When she returned, a happy smile was plastered over her face. "They'll see me tomorrow, at ten." Abruptly her face fell. "I can't get there."

"I'll take you." Surely that was obvious?

"But..."

"I need to get some things too. Paper, ink cartridges, that sort of thing."

Her face cleared again. Silly Beckett. How did she think she would drive with a cast on? He didn't need to get anything – normally he simply ordered online and had it all delivered, but if it made her feel better... a little fib didn't hurt.

More to the point, she wasn't getting her mitts on his Ferrari. Nuh-uh no. He never got to drive her car, and she wasn't going to have the fun of driving his.

"Now, off you go and do your exercises," he instructed. Naturally, she bridled at the tone. "I want to swim while it's hot, and you'll distract me." He waggled his eyebrows insinuatingly. "All that lovely lithe figure on display... I might drown if you distract me too much."

"Not likely."

"You'd rescue me?"

"I guess. It's in the job description."

"I'm wounded. Surely you'd want to rescue me for my charming personality."

"Or because I can't do my own sun lotion."

"I can certainly help you with that," Castle oozed. "Whenever you'd like."

She blushed scarlet. It appeared that cool-cat Beckett remembered their conversation about sun lotion too, and was distinctly not-cool at the memory. "I need to go do these exercises," she stuttered, and decamped at speed. Castle grinned at the space where she had been, and finished the clearing up without having to worry about broken-armed Becketts getting in his way and disturbing his composure. Then he bounced off to find the sun lotion and change into his swim shorts. He didn't hurry, not knowing how long her exercises would take, but when he eventually ambled round she appeared to be done, parked on the cane couch and staring into space.

"Done?" he asked.

She jumped, focused on him, and her eyes widened. Much to Castle's appreciative amusement, she appeared to have got her eyes stuck on his bare chest. After a few seconds, her gaze slid not up to his face, but down, at least until she realised and jerked it back up.

"Yeah," she said, a little breathlessly.

"I'm going to swim," he noted, superfluously. "You could find your bikini and come sit and watch my honed muscularity cutting through the water."

Strangely, that didn't provoke a hoot of deflating laughter.

"I don't know, Castle," Beckett eventually managed. "Are you sure you can resist the urge to show off?"

"Are you sure you can resist the urge to run your hands all over my dripping body?" he riposted.

She made a face and stood up. "Enjoy your swim," she said, and sauntered off, swinging her hips. How was he supposed to enjoy swimming (which he normally adored) with that picture in his mind?

He plunged into the pool, which was helpfully cooler than both the air and his over-imaginative self, and began to power through lengths, trying to concentrate on his stroke, not on stroking Beckett.

When he came up for air, metaphorically speaking, twenty lengths later, still not free of the vision of Beckett in very short shorts, his brain was instantly wiped. There on a lounger – which had previously been in a somewhat different alignment and why had she moved it herself, aaargghhh – was a bikini clad Beckett, lying on her front with her face towards the pool. It was a very small bikini. Tiny, in fact. Green. Tiny. Tiny. Green... and then she moved a little and tiny suddenly wasn't covering very much at all. It wasn't quite a thong. He gathered his game. Then he re-gathered it, thought some deflating thoughts, and tried to gather it again. A few more gatherings later, he could get out of the pool without disgracing himself.

"Do you want me to rub lotion on your back?" he asked suavely. "I wouldn't want you to get sunburn."

"That would be nice," she said, very cool and collected. It was, Castle thought, a terrible shame that the tiny, green bikini didn't hide her reaction to him in the slightest. She could hide her eyes behind those large sunglasses – but not the rest of her. The rest of her was thoroughly interested. He might not be able to see her front, but there was a line of colour in her cheeks and a sensual, feline smile quirking at her lips. Then she nibbled her lip.

Game on.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers, guest and named.