Chapter 10

Castle, having left around four, planned to stop along the way for the night, rather than arrive late and in the dark, when Beckett wouldn't open the door. He decided to make it as far as Roscoe, and then be there earlyish in the morning. When he stopped for a break, he booked a room in the Reynolds motel, which would do. He only really needed a bed and to wash.

That was pretty much what he got. His room was, as anticipated, fairly basic, but the bed was comfortable and the shower efficient, if cramped for a big man.

He was just in time to take a table at the town's diner and have a hurried dinner before they closed; the servers wiping down around him. He was the only person eating, at eight fifteen, and he didn't linger, taking a go-cup of coffee back to the motel with him, where he sat in his room, sipped the coffee, and wondered whether he should try to call Beckett.

On the pro side, she'd know help was almost at hand. She probably wouldn't shoot him on sight. On the cons, she might find some way to ignore him, leave him on the doorstep, or have him arrested.

On balance, he'd just show up in the morning. He played out scenarios in his mind, most of which ended badly. Well, whatever. If she didn't want him there, that was just too bad. He could always give her a ride back to Manhattan, where the boys and/or Lanie would look after her.

Or her father, of course. Now why hadn't Montgomery called her father? Surely that made far more sense than calling him…

That sneaky, manipulative sonofabitch! At several hours remove, suddenly Castle could see that Montgomery had goaded and tricked him into losing his temper and hightailing it off out here. He swore bitterly at his own stupidity, and was only marginally comforted by the knowledge that Beckett would wreak full revenge on her captain, since she was quite likely to wreak it on him first.

Eventually, he decided that since he was almost the whole way to the Beckett cabin, and was now settled for the night, he would still go. But at the slightest hint of rejection, he would leave.

So he told himself, over and over again, as he slipped into sleep.

He woke, panicking and horrified, seeing pin-sharp visions of Beckett shot and bleeding out, dying while he couldn't do anything about it; breathed until his breath came regularly again, and tried to sleep once more. This time, his nightmares included corpse-Beckett walking away from him with a variety of gory beings, and then relapsed into the more familiar but still unpleasant variant on turning up in the centre of a town, having failed to don clothing, knocking on a door that opened to reveal Beckett, Montgomery and the boys.

He was extremely relieved to awaken, and more so to check out, walk down to the diner and have a good breakfast with a large pot of coffee. He had plenty of time: it was only seven-thirty and it would take him no more than an hour to reach Beckett's cabin. She ought to sleep later than usual, he thought, and didn't think – because he hadn't yet researched – that her injury might rob her of sleep. He ate slowly, and didn't hesitate to have an extra mug of coffee, strong and black.

Finally he settled the check, and started out again.

An hour later, he pulled up at a small cabin: two storeys, with a swing seat on the porch and a Harley parked neatly by the side. Beckett had a Harley? She'd never mentioned that. Rapidly, he understood that there was no way Beckett could get home if that was how she'd got here – and hang on. How'd she driven it here with an injured left arm, never mind being shot? That seemed…dumb. However good she was with a motorcycle, driving it right after a head injury and an arm injury wasn't just dumb, it was reckless.

He marched up to the cabin door – and then paused, thought, and walked softly around the cabin, peering into the windows.

There was Beckett, on the couch. Now he didn't need to worry about waking her, or her having to walk downstairs: she only needed to make it the few feet to the front door.

And yet, returning to the door, he hesitated. What if…what if she rejected him?

Well, if she did, it would be all over. No see you in the fall, no precinct, and move on. Sure, it would hurt. (Hurt? said a little voice in his head? You mean it would be agonising.) But it would be done. A cold void opened up in his chest at the thought. He could…go. That way there would be no risk of losing Beckett, or the precinct, or Nikki Heat. They'd start again, in the fall. It would be so much easier…

It would be cowardice.

He might have been goaded into coming here, but now that he was here, his own pride wouldn't let him step back. Nor would his conscience. If he'd told Montgomery that Beckett was his partner, or he was hers, goading or no it was his job to look after her until she could look after herself. That wasn't negotiable and it wasn't being her puppy. That was being a responsible, caring human being.

He just hoped that she would see it that way.

He knocked.

Beckett felt that she'd barely slept, still exhausted, her arm painful and her shoulder worse; the rest of her aching from a night on the couch, half-sitting up. She stumbled to the kitchen and found her ice pack; laid it over her shoulder and only then filled a water glass to gulp down her painkillers. She reached, wincing, for a mug, put it in place and switched the coffee maker on.

Even making her mug of coffee was such an effort that she was glad to return to the couch. She looked at her phone, and found nothing new; read Castle's messages again. This early in the morning, she was too tired for anger, too tired to wonder why he'd message her when he should be…she wouldn't think that. He had messaged, and maybe in a while she'd have the energy to answer. Nothing worrying, nothing to disturb him. Comforting evasions. He'd made his choice, since she'd seemed to have made hers. It wasn't up to her to try and see if he'd compensate for her mistake.

She pressed reply, and wrote I'm fine, but got no further, the coffee cooling beside her as her limited energy gave out, used up by the effort of ice pack and coffee. Her eyes shut again, returning her to the cycle of half-sleep, discomfort waking her, only to doze again. The phone lay on the table, silent.

Dimly, through her lassitude, she heard a noise; and rising through her semi-consciousness, understood that someone was knocking at the door. She supposed that it would be someone from Walton, though Officer Dermot wasn't expected to come back till late afternoon, and it was still morning. She didn't want to move, but not to do so would be churlish when the town was going to take care of her. She shifted slowly, cautiously; eventually rising and shuffling stiffly to the door.

"Castle!"

Shock sent her swaying, and Castle reached out and caught her around the waist as she slumped.

He held her for an instant, adjusting so that he wasn't touching the sling, realised that she couldn't walk on her own, and oh-so-very-carefully guided her back to the couch and settled her there.

"I have to prop my arm," she whispered, and subsided as if even that were too much effort. Castle shifted the pile of pillows closer, and then moved the table towards her. "Legs up," he said, and lifted them when it was clear she couldn't. He jammed the table against the edge of the couch, put all the pillows on it, and watched, cringing at the sight of her pain, as she placed her arm correctly.

"Thanks," she breathed, but shut her eyes. "Thought…Gina."

"She left," he said.

Her lips formed Good, but she didn't say it. He didn't think she knew she'd let it slip. "Tired," she sighed.

"Try to rest. I'll fix myself coffee and we'll work it all out when you're up to it." He collected her mug too, and brewed enough for both of them, taking his time and trying to process the appalling sight of wounded, drawn, sleepless and un-made up Beckett, plainly exhausted and equally plainly in considerable pain.

He went back over to her with both mugs, put them on the table and drew a chair up on the other side, placing it so she didn't have to move to see him but so that he could touch her without stretching if he needed to.

"Can you reach your mug?" he asked.

Beckett tried, and found that she could reach, without stretching, moving her other arm, or much effort. "Thanks," she managed, and cradled the cup against her sloppy hoodie.

Castle sipped his coffee and didn't try to talk until she'd almost drained the cup. "Done?" he asked, and when she nodded took the cup from her and put it down. "You up to talking?" She nodded. Castle wasn't precisely convinced, but he wasn't going to challenge her. "What happened?"

"Robber. Forgot I didn't have a gun. He was going for the cashier and wouldn't stop. Took him down. Shot got my shoulder. Woke up in hospital." She made a face. "Made me a hero. Just doing the job."

Castle stared at her, open-mouthed and horrified. "You forgot you were off-duty and didn't have a gun?"

Her face crumpled, and then twisted. "You're not a cop. You don't get it," she said coldly, mustering up all her strength. "You don't just stand aside."

"I didn't mean that – none of you stand aside when you're needed. But how could you forget you didn't have a gun?"

"Did," she said tiredly, and closed her eyes again.

Castle scrapped any plan of asking more: specifically, about her earlier injuries. "Well, I'm here now. I came to look after you."

"Huh?"

"You can't cook, can't drive – especially not that gorgeous Harley out there – and it's miles to the town, so I am here to make sure you want for nothing – or take you back to Manhattan, if that's what you want."

"Thanks," she said, and didn't inquire further. Truthfully, she was just too worn out to care right now. He was here. She didn't need to know anything more. "Glad…" she sighed out on a long breath.

Castle watched as her face and good arm relaxed a little, and then cleared the coffee mugs and examined the contents of the fridge and freezer. To his considerable surprise, there was a reasonable quantity of food in both. He thought for a moment or two, and then decided that it would be perfectly possible to produce a good lunch and then dinner, to eat both of which only one working arm would be required. There was plenty of ice cream, too. The mundanity of considering food and meal plans kept him from screaming. Unfortunately, he couldn't consider meal plans for any longer. He dug out his laptop and phone, plugged the laptop in, and tried to write while Beckett appeared to be asleep.

Far too soon she shifted, whimpered, and woke.

"What do you need?" Castle asked.

"I can" –

"Nope," he said, cheerfully definite. "I'll get it, whatever it is."

"Ice pack, please. Freezer."

"Okay," Castle said, locating it easily and gently landing it on her shoulder. "Swap the other one to re-freeze?"

"Please. I forgot."

"Okay. Where are your painkillers – don't tell me they didn't give you something that would fell an elephant?"

"Upstairs."

"I'll go get them. Anything else you need?"

She shook her head.

"Okay. Is there a spare bedroom here?" He grinned. "I don't think I'd fit on that couch. Your bed would be comfy, but you need it and I guess you're propping that arm up at night too."

"Yeah. Linen in the closet on the landing." She didn't mention that she was sleeping on the couch.

"I'll make the bed as soon as you've got your painkillers.." He wasn't going to give her a chance to object, but, amazingly, she wasn't objecting.

"'Kay."

He loped upstairs, found the painkillers, brought them back, and looked at Beckett. "How about a blanket?"

"Nice."

Back up he went, and came down with a soft comforter, which he tucked around her with gentle care. "There. I'm going to make my bed. Don't move. I won't be long."

"No," she said compliantly.

He whisked himself back up the stairs, rapidly made the bed in the other room, and then sneaked across the landing to examine Beckett's bedroom and glean some clues to non-precinct Beckett. There wasn't much. A pretty quilt, which looked almost home-made, wooden Shaker-style furniture; but no photos or pictures. It didn't really tell him anything he didn't already know.

When he came back downstairs, Beckett had taken the painkillers but appeared to be trying to detach herself from the comforter and the couch.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

She jumped, and yelped with the sudden sharp pain. "Bathroom," she said pitifully.

Castle realised that the table, so helpful in supporting her arm, was extremely unhelpfully preventing her standing. He pushed it away, and then set his hands around Beckett's waist to lift her as delicately as he possibly could and then steady her. Letting go was harder than it should have been, and watching her shuffle off to a door that obviously hid a bathroom was agonisingly uncomfortable.

He forced himself to let her shuffle back, wishing all the while that he could simply pick her up and carry her; but that would only jar her shoulder and damage it further. Instead, he arranged the table more sensibly, and then settled her arm, so that she could rise unaided.

Beckett could only be grateful for Castle's quietly efficient presence. Somehow, with him there, nothing was quite as overwhelming. The bouncing man-child was entirely missing, and instead there was a calm, soothing adult who knew, somehow, exactly how to arrange her injured shoulder, who didn't fuss but nevertheless had managed to meet every need.

"Wish…" she began, and stopped. She hadn't meant to articulate her thought.

"Wish what?" asked Castle, who had no business picking up on her drug-addled openness. "Your wish is my command," he teased, when she didn't answer. "Or you could wish upon a star, or I could go get a cake and candles and you can blow them out and make a wish even if it isn't your birthday, or maybe there'll be a falling star this evening and you could wish on that."

Beckett simply looked at him, hazel eyes huge and tired, a suspicion of dampness within them. Castle's heart, never as well-protected from Beckett as he'd pretended, melted. "C'mere," he said, sat down on the couch next to her, and tucked an arm around the back of it, touching her neck but nowhere near the ice pack. He followed up by taking her good hand. "You'll heal," he said. "Now, just lay your head on my shoulder and snuggle in. Hugs are healing."

He'd have been a lot less concerned if she'd snarked, bantered, or rolled her eyes; none of which occurred. Her hand lay limp and chill in his, and when he stroked his thumb over its back, the fine bones were evident. He shifted, reaching for his laptop, and she made a formless noise of unhappiness. "I'm not going anywhere, I just want my laptop," he reassured. "You should try to sleep."

"Don't like this," she sighed. "Hurts."

"Yeah," Castle agreed, and managed not to say that's what you get for being the hero; they always end up hurting.

"Wouldn't have asked," she murmured into his shirt. "Thank you."

For being here, Castle heard, and rejoiced. "I wanted to come," he said softly. "I missed you."

"Me too," but she was already most of the way to sleep, and he couldn't be sure she'd heard him or was answering him. He resettled his arm, put the hand he had been stroking on to her lap. He shifted around a fraction, so that she was wedged in a vee between the back of the couch and his back, and turned to his laptop. One-handed typing wasn't his preference, but he could manage for a while. In fact, he could just research rotator cuff damage…and so he did.

Well, fuck. That was just as bad as if the bullet had shattered her collarbone or scapula. It would take months to heal properly. Did Beckett actually know that? Because she sure wouldn't like it. She'd been astonishingly unlucky – and astonishingly lucky, he supposed. Unlucky to be so hurt – but luckier, so lucky, not to be dead.

Later, they would have to talk. For now, Castle was happy just to have Beckett there beside him, rather than to be attending a funeral. He began to work, constructing an episode for Nikki in which a supermarket robber didn't have a gun, and lost himself in writing out Rook's feelings, which were, naturally, his.

Far too soon for Castle's liking, Beckett woke, trying to move. Her lips pinched tight; lines of strain and pain across her forehead.

"I need to get another ice pack," she said, frustration edging the words. "Supposed to do it several times a day."

"I'll get it. You try to get comfortable."

He took the used one, and swapped it for the new. "Do you want more painkillers?" he said, still standing.

Beckett looked at where her watch should be, and realised that it wasn't. She picked up her phone instead, and swiped it open. Castle, as curious as ever, looked at it, and (with a facility for reading upside down developed in any number of principal's offices – and honed in many others where he shouldn't have been reading) gasped.

"You were going to text me to tell me you were fine?"

Beckett huddled into herself. "I can't take any painkillers for another hour and a half," she deflected.

"Then you can damn well tell me why you were going to say you were fine when you got shot on top of a fucking concussion and being punched out twice!"

"I wasn't going to spoil your summer!" she cried. "You didn't need to know."

Castle gaped at her, silenced. Then, "I didn't need to know that you were shot?"

"You'd made your choice," she said.

"'Cause you made yours!" he yelled back.

"I know that! But" – she stopped and tried to turn away, forgetting her shoulder and biting back a shriek.

"Don't move," Castle said more temperately. "Don't turn away from me."

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Much appreciated.