Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
A/N Those who read a lot of my stories know that I'm notoriously bad at calculating how quickly I'm going to wrap one up. So: this isn't the final chapter, after all.
The rational part of his mind, which had all but shut down the moment he'd seen her this morning, had been trying to warn him that she'd get around to asking that. Yet she still catches him completely off guard, with his mental pants down.
When he hears her question—really three questions, an unholy trinity—he coughs so hard that the melon flies out of his mouth. He didn't know that a piece of soft fruit, half the size of a Ping-Pong ball, could become a projectile capable of traveling so far. It might have gone on for 50 miles, might have made it to the Atlantic Ocean, had it not hit the wall. Literally hit the wall, not that marathon runner thing of hitting the wall. Hit the wall eight feet away from him, landing with a splat next to a 2011 songbird calendar that's hanging over a wooden bench. He can see from where he's sitting that Ms. June is identified as a warbler of some kind. Or is it Mr. June? He's not clear on gender differences in birds excepts cardinals, the feathered friend to which he had compared himself only moments ago. Male cardinals are red, females are brown and have little splatters of red in their feathers. Speaking of splat. But the bird on the calendar this month is a warbler. Is it called that because it warbles? Don't all birds warble? A lot of them do, like canaries, right? He should look it up.
"Castle!"
"Uh." Does he look like the cat that ate the canary? Or warbler? He must. But how can he tell her that he knew the way here? That he knew where she was? "Oh, uh." He coughs again, no melon expulsion this time, just nerves. His nerves are flying out of his big fat mouth and going splat on the wall. "Well, I figured you must be at your father's cabin. Just logical, you know, since you weren't at your apartment. Because I checked that, that you weren't there. And I figured oh, Beckett will want the peace and quiet. So she'll go to the country. And that's how I knew to come here."
One look at her face and he knows she's not buying any of it. Even he knew what he's said is cripplingly lame. Can she see the sweat beading above his lip? He needs to shore up his story. A little soft soap couldn't hurt.
"It was deductive reasoning, Detective. Exactly what you used to determine that I didn't bring any extra clothes with me. Simple as that. After all, I learned from the best, NYPD badge number 41319." His knees would give out if he weren't sitting down. He's never been this grateful to be in a chair.
With one steely look, Kate pinions him, then points towards the screen door. "See that bird?"
Birds! Is she reading his mind? Now that the meds are out of her system she's not missing a thing. It's terrifying and weirdly erotic. "Which one?"
"The robin, Castle. I know you're a city slicker, but even you can ID a robin. There are thousands of them in Central Park. This one is perched on the porch railing."
"Robin. I see him. Her. It."
That gets him a shake of the head. "Him. Him. Red breast means it's a male."
"Right, him."
"You're familiar with the expression 'birdbrain'?"
She has one eyebrow up, which is always a bad sign. It's the facial equivalent of six-inch-high, red neon letters blinking DANGER! DANGER! "Yes, I'm acquainted with that one."
"Well, your average birdbrain, someone with the mental capacity of that sweet little robin out there, wouldn't fall for this line of yours. More to the point, you've conveniently omitted describing how it is that you knew the way here. This isn't exactly the crossroads of the world. I've never even told you what town this cabin is near. So, how did you know, Ricky?"
Oh, the sound of "Ricky" is really not good.
"You've got some 'splainin' to do. Correction, a lot of 'splainin' to do."
Funny what how much punch a 55-year-old line from I Love Lucy still has. It usually makes him laugh, but not now. Today it jolts some sense into him. He's not going down for this. Not alone. If she's going to be pissed off, fine, but she can be pissed off at both of them. But what's really important is that it's time she knows exactly who has her back. "Your dad, Kate. I went to see your dad and told him that you had texted me and that I was going to come keep you company. He thought that was a good idea and gave me the directions. All written out. See?"
He shoves his hand in one of his rear pockets, pulls out a piece of paper, unfolds it and pushes it across the tabletop.
She barely glances at the page that's filled with familiar handwriting—handwriting that suddenly brings to mind birthday cards and notes of encouragement and letters when she was at camp. Things that her father had written to her since the time she could read. "My dad did this?" She looks ashen as she shakily pushes the paper back to Castle. She doesn't want it. "You told him about my texts? I have never been this embarrassed in my life. Ever. I can't believe you'd do that."
This time he does wrap his hand around her wrist, and holds on, gently but firmly. There's no way he's letting her leave until he's said his piece, made her understand. "I didn't show him your texts, Kate. You know I wouldn't. I told him only that you'd spilled the coffee beans and couldn't pick them up and wondered if I could make you coffee and keep you company. So you'd have someone to talk to. That's all. Get it? That's all."
"I told him I was fine, Castle. I can take care of myself. Everyone's acting as though I can't. You're all interfering. I hate it. I can be alone." She's grinding her teeth so hard he half expects powdered enamel to fall from her mouth.
"Clearly you're not, Kate. You're not fine. It's not a moral failing, you know. No one thinks you're weak. You're healing, for God's sake. You were shot. You were in surgery for hours. You flatlined." Saying flatlined aloud is a blow to his already battered heart, and he has to stop for a moment, still hanging on to her wrist. He looks down at the line that she'd drawn a few minutes ago, sighs, and looks back up at her face. "You're not well enough to be alone. If you were, you could have picked up the coffee beans, and you'd never have overmedicated—not once, but twice—in less than twelve hours. So no, you can't be alone. Your dad and I are not conspiring against you, all right? We want to help you, and right now I'm in the better position to do that. He's in the middle of a case and I'm in the middle of—of nothing important."
She scrapes her chair back, as if she's trying to get away from him, so he closes his hand around hers a little more tightly.
"That's not true, what I just said. What I'm in the middle of now is incredibly important, which is to make sure that you eat properly and get the right dosages of meds and do your exercises. If you want to slap me one right now, fine, give it your best shot. But I'm not leaving. I'll keep quiet, and sit outside while you're in, or in while you're out, but I'm staying. I'll go back to the city when your father comes here for the weekend, but I'll be passing him on the driveway Sunday night when he's going out and I'm coming in."
Castle is exhausted. Every bit of him, physically, psychically. A few moments ago he'd been exhilarated; now he's depleted. He loves amusement parks, considers himself an aficionado, but he has never been on a roller coaster that rivals the one that he has been on since he walked through the door here earlier today. In the face of her whatever it is—anger? intransigence?—he decides to go for broke; it's all he can think to do. He reminds himself of the trauma she has been through and is still enduring.
"You know I love you, Kate. All I ask is that for the next few weeks, or as long as it takes for you truly to be on your feet, that you allow me to look after you. If you really don't want me here, if you really feel betrayed, fine. In that case I'll hire nurses to stay with you. And before you say anything about how expensive that would be, how uncomfortable it would make you to have me pay for it, forget it. It would be my gift to your father. From one father to another. If Alexis were in your situation I'd want the best possible care for her. So if you have objections, the court isn't going to hear them."
When he gets to his feet he wonders if he has the strength to make it across the room. This must be what she feels like, minus the physical agony. "I'm going to clear the table now, do the dishes, and take a nap on the porch or the sofa, depending on where you want to be. While I'm sleeping, you can decide if you want to have nurses here, or me."
She's still quiet while he carries their breakfast things to the sink. He's just turning on the hot water when he hears her. "There's liquid detergent in the cabinet."
He holds up a bottle. "Already got it. It was next to the sink."
"In the bathroom."
He's at a loss again. It must be sleep depravation. He manages a weak smile. "No problem, there's plenty here."
"Castle?"
"Yes."
"I meant for your shorts. Thought you might want to wash them so you don't have to go commando again tomorrow. It would be really hard for me to concentrate on physical therapy day after day, knowing that you're wandering around here underwearless."
He turns the water off. Had he heard her right? He takes a couple of steps in the direction of the table. She's looking right at him, and so many emotions play across her face in a few seconds that he feels as though he's watching some kind of time-lapse photography. She appears happy and contrite, sure and unsure, frightened and confident, all underlaid with a certain amount of physical pain.
"Kate?"
And now she looks bashful. "Yeah?"
"I can stay? You want me to stay?"
"Yes. Even if you drive me crazy sometimes, you'll be a damn sight better than some Nurse Ratched."
"Okay."
"Just one condition."
He's not happy about this, but he'll live with any compromise if he can be here with her. "Done."
"You have to promise never to ask, 'How are we feeling today?'."
He puts his hand over his heart. "I promise. I swear."
"And one more thing."
"I thought you said just one condition? And now you're adding something? Are you taking advantage of me?"
"Not strong enough for that yet, but just wait. No, this is—" She stops and puts her head in her hands.
He doesn't know what to do, and his feet won't budge. He'd told her he'd keep quiet, so he will, anxious as it makes him.
"Please promise that you'll forgive me for what I said. I know you wouldn't show my father those texts. I'm just still so mortified about them. The other thing is, I've been independent all my life, and I hate relying on someone else. Always have. When my mother tried to show me how to tie my shoes I had a tantrum. Wanted to do it all by myself. I've come to realize that I like to rely on you, that I want to lean on you a little, but that scares the hell out of me. I wish that I hadn't discovered this while I'm such a physical wreck, because I could deal with it better. It's kind of a new me inside an old me. Or anyway, a me that feels a hundred years old at the moment."
He's gobsmacked. He's delirious. He's—. He runs to the table and stumbles to a halt in front of her. "I know you said I had to stay on the other side of the line for three weeks. And as soon as I do this one thing, this one little thing, I will." He leans forward and kisses her as long and as passionately as he can without using his hands for anything but holding her by the shoulders. And then he withdraws, leaving her breathless. "I said it last winter, when I kissed you in that alleyway, and I'll say it again. Amazing."
When he turns and starts to go back to the kitchen, she shouts, "Wait! What are you doing?"
He pivots and smiles innocently. "Who, me? I'm going to make that chart. Gotta fill in things for twenty-one days, so I don't cross the line you've been talking about."
TBC