Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
They stay in the shower long enough for him to wish that he'd taken off his sneakers before he'd carried her in, but that's his only regret. She's fully awake, standing up reasonably well, and mildly cursing him. He can take it, does take it. Tilting his head back to let the warm water flood his face, he begins to formulate a plan–at least for the immediate future, meaning tonight and tomorrow morning.
"Time for us to get out, Beckett," he says at last, turning off the faucet. Concerned that she might trip over the raised metal strip that keeps the water from leaking onto the floor, he hoists her over it. There's a small wooden cabinet under the window, and he guesses correctly that it contains spare towels. He grabs a couple, and wraps one around her. "I'm going to help you to your bedroom so–"
"Don't need help."
Untruer words were never spoken, he thinks. "I'll walk you to your bedroom so you can get into some dry clothes. If you're not out in five minutes I'll come in through the window and get you." He takes her by the hand and steers her gently the short distance to her room. She doesn't look at him, but at least she shuts rather than slams the door behind her.
He makes a soggy dash to his car. Not long after he'd arrived at the Twelfth he'd started keeping a small bag of clothes in the trunk, and now he's grateful that he hadn't broken the habit. He pulls out the gym bag and takes it inside to the bathroom. After changing quickly into boxers, jeans, and a polo shirt–all the while monitoring the occasional noises emanating from the bedroom–he retrieves the brown bag from the farm and pads barefoot to the kitchen to put the food away. He flips on the overhead light and starts a pot of coffee, and every few seconds looks nervously over his shoulder, expecting her to swoop in like an avenging angel.
Since the coffee's done and she has yet to appear, he pours two mugs, puts them on a tray with some water and a bowl of peanuts, and brings them to her door.
"Beckett?" He waits several seconds. "Kate?"
When a full minute elapses and she still hasn't said anything, he announces calmly, "I'm coming in."
She's sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chin, and a towel thrown over her head, completely covering it.
"Made coffee," he says before sitting down cross-legged opposite her. He nudges a mug in her direction. "It would be good if you drank it." When she she doesn't reach for it he leans forward, gathers up the towel, and drops it next to his hip. "Easier to drink without that. And I want to see your face."
Though she turns her head away, he can hear her ask, "Why?"
"I like to to see people when we're talking. And besides–" He's afraid that he's already losing his nerve, and he clenches his jaw before continuing. "And besides, I want to make sure that that cut is all right. On your cheekbone. It might need some antibiotic cream."
He watches her hand move hesitantly to her face. When her fingertip finds the cut she snatches it away. "If there is any. Here. Um, antibiotic cream." Aware that his voice is fading, he clears his throat. "Or I could go buy some." He picks up the other thing that he'd brought from the kitchen, crushed ice that he'd sealed in a plastic bag and wrapped in a dish towel. "This is a homemade ice pack, but it should help. If you hold it against your cheek it will keep the swelling down." He holds it out to her. "That cut isn't too bad." She continues to look away, so he places the bundled dishtowel next to her foot and stands up. "I'm going to check the medicine cabinet."
He's trying to behave as this were an ordinary evening and an ordinary first-aid moment.
To his surprise he finds a tube of Neosporin, presumably left behind by a previous tenant, and the expiration date is still a month away. They had been in the shower for a long time and the cut was well rinsed, but he's not taking any chances, so he wets a washcloth and soaps it liberally. When he gets back to Beckett, he's relieved to see that she's holding the ice pack to her face. "Could you take that off for a minute, please, so I can clean the cut?" he asks, squatting in front of her. "I want to make sure it's all clear before I put on the ointment."
What's more surprising? She lets him do it, without a squawk. "Looks good," he declares when he finishes. "I don't think you'll have even a tiny scar."
"Wouldn't matter if I did," she mumbles in the direction of her knees. "I have lots of scars."
Oh, God, those scars. Unless she means some other ones, and what could they be? What could they possibly be compared to the ones that must be her daily reminder of what happened last summer? He uncaps a bottle of water and touches the cold edge of it to her hand. "Drink this. Please."
She lifts her head and really looks at him for the first time since yesterday. "I'm tired, Castle."
"I know. Drink the water, or the coffee. It's still hot."
"I'm so tired. I was asleep before, you know."
"Ah." Asleep? If that's what she wants to call it. Asleep on the bathroom floor. Okay, maybe she was. Sleeping it off on the bathroom floor. A night on the tiles. "You'll feel better if you drink some water."
She's back to talking to her kneecaps. "I'm going to bed."
"Beckett?"
"Yes?"
"You're still wet. I mean, you should change into something dry before you go to bed."
"You want to see me naked, Castle?" It's not flirting, or a come on, or even a real question. There's some kind of new and terrible resignation in her voice, as if she expects him to be so repelled by her that he would never want to see her any way but fully clothed. It makes his heart drop.
"No. No, I just think it's a bad idea to sleep in a soaking wet shirt." He gets to his feet and feels as if he were eighty. "Uh, good night." He leaves the tray on the floor, but doesn't turn to look at her as he leaves the room and closes the door. In the bathroom, he puts the Neosporin in the cabinet, fishes a toothbrush and tiny tube of paste from his bag, and brushes his teeth.
There's a small closet in the hallway, and he peeks in. Good. It's a catch-all that contains exactly what he needs: bedding. He grabs some, but as he crosses into the living room exhaustion hits him like a fully-loaded pick-up truck. He strips off his jeans, collapses onto the sofa, and shoves a pillow under his head. The air is much cooler than it had been, which is typical at night in the mountains, so he shakes out a blanket and pulls it over him. To hell with the sheets. If she finds him here she'll kill him, but he's too tired to worry about it.
When he wakes he has a crick in his neck and a dent in his ankle, which is perched on the arm of the sofa that's not quite long enough to accommodate his six-feet-two-inch frame. What time is it? He sees his Levi's on the floor and by stretching his right arm to the maximum, he can snag and drag them over. He shakes the phone out of a pocket and sees that it's almost seven. His stomach rumbles. Unsettled as he continues to be by what happened last night, he's ravenous, but the cupboard here rivals Mother Hubbard's. He rolls off the sofa, stretches, and gets the coffee going. While it's brewing he contemplates the discouraging interior of the fridge, but when he opens the door, he's ecstatic to find what he'd forgotten in last night's emotional chaos: the farm-stand bounty. He removes the bread, butter, and strawberries.
First, though, coffee. He's on his third, welcome sip when he hears the snick of a door opening and immediately after another one closing. She must be in the bathroom. He's braced, or hopes he is, for what's to come: rage and whatever else accompanies her hangover. When he hears the door open again he moves to his right so that she'll be sure to see him. "Morning, Beckett," he says, deliberately softly. Would you like some coffee?"
She moves slowly out of the shadows into the sunlit living room, her head bowed. "Thanks." She stops several feet away from him, so he pours a mug and extends it to her. She puts it to her lips and winces slightly, and when she turns her head she startles. "You slept here?"
He's wrong. There's no rage, and if she has a headache, she doesn't show it.
"Yes." It seems best to leave it at that for now.
"Why?"
She wants an explanation; he'll keep it simple. "I didn't want to leave you alone overnight."
"Why?"
Oh, boy. "Well, in case you needed something, or, maybe." Get a grip, you're a writer. "In case you felt sick."
She drinks some coffee, but doesn't move from the spot and stares at the floor rather than him. "Don't you want to leave?"
He'd thought she might kick him out. He hadn't expected this, to leave it up to him. "No. It's nice here."
"Don't you want to leave me?"
"No." If this keeps up, he's going to need the bourbon that he poured down the drain a few minutes ago. Too late now.
"I did."
He's at a loss. What does she mean? "I'm sorry, what?"
"I did."
"You did what?"
"Leave. My father."
He's wordless.
"I left my father. I couldn't take it any more. And now I'm him. I'm my father."
Her voice cracks and his heart does the same.
"I'm my father. I looked at my tee shirt when I woke up, Castle. It's stained from vomit. And my cheek, my cheek is cut. So blood and vomit, just like my father. You cleaned that off me. I don't know how you could bear it." She sits down hard on the floor, still gripping the mug, and starts to cry.
She rocks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, eventually doubling over until her forehead is on the insides of her calves. It reminds him of news footage that he's seen of mothers who have just been told of the death of a husband or a child. She's keening, and he inches closer so that he can hear her, even though her voice is muffled.
"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I screamed at you. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I was so mad at you. I'm sorry, Dad. I let you down. I'm sorry. I screwed everything up. I'm sorry."
He doesn't know what to do. He wants to get down on the floor with her and hold her against his chest, embrace her, even rock her, until she knows that she is safe and loved, until she understands that he is not sitting in judgment but standing with her.
TBC
A/N To the guest reviewer of the last chapter who wrote: " 'Wouldn't have' 'Must have' not 'wouldn't of' 'Must of' Sorry, it's a bit of a pet peeve of mine. But otherwise really enjoying the story." I'm glad that you're enjoying it and appreciate your letting me know. I understand grammar peeves as I'm something of a grammar stickler myself, but in this instance I used incorrect grammar as a conversational device. Espo is one of millions of people who use "of" for "have," and that's why I did it. (In the same scene he also said "me and you" instead of "you and I" and "ain't" instead of "isn't." That's our Espo!)