Chapter 15

Castle didn't want to let go of Beckett at all. Lifting her from her recliner had been easy – too easy, but then he should have noticed that much earlier – but holding her close, wrapped in his arms, cuddled against his chest as lightly and delicately as if she were fragile crystal, his nose in her hair, breathing the familiar cherry scent – letting go just wasn't in the game plan. His hand ran gently up and down the ridges of her vertebrae, more stroke than soothe; rising to her nape and the silky tendrils of her hair, falling to the sleek curve of her ass.

It took all his control and seldom-seen maturity not to press her closer yet, into the swelling evidence of how much he liked having her close-caught. But still, the way she leaned against him suggested exhaustion, not arousal, with more than a hint of pain. He set his hands on her waist, and then slid them up to under her arms.

"C'mon," he murmured. "I'd carry you upstairs, but I'll jar your arm, so you have to walk. If I don't go up, there won't be a bath."

"Bath," Beckett yawned. "Yes. Okay."

Castle bounded up the stairs and dealt with the bath, imagining watching Beckett bathing all the while. Beckett lurched upward, hissing occasionally, and attained her bedroom to remove all but her panties and swathe herself, again, in her ancient robe. That done, she shuffled along to inspect the bath.

"Can't I have a bit more water?" she asked pathetically.

"You can't get that arm wet, and you can't move it. So you can't have more water." He met her eyes. "I'd put more in if I could."

"I know," she replied. "But I want a proper bath." She did. She was sure she hadn't pouted since she was six, but she wanted to pout now. Baths were the way in which she relaxed, eased, self-soothed; the way in which she calmed herself and re-asserted her personality; the way in which all upset was simply…washed away.

"I'd like to see you in a proper bath," he flirted, but when she attempted a glare it simply melted in the heat of his glance, which bore the same relation to his flirting as a furnace to a match. She gleeped, dropped her eyes, and stared at the bath, vaguely surprised that there wasn't superheated steam. Certainly Castle was generating enough heat to boil the bath away.

"Where's your cover?" he asked prosaically. "You need to cover that arm."

"Oh. Uh…bedroom."

Castle had disappeared before Beckett could blink. He returned brandishing plastic and tape, and bounced up to her – then stopped. "You need to take your arm out of that robe," he noted. "Um… I'd better turn my back."

"Yeah. And no peeking."

"I would never!"

"Exploding apartments," Beckett mused. Castle coloured. "So you did peek!"

"You were in your bath and the towels were on fire! How was I supposed to save you if I couldn't see you?"

"You said you wouldn't look and you did."

"You – you tricked me!"

"Huh?"

"You didn't know I'd peeked."

"Until you just admitted it."

Castle coloured further – and then smirked wolfishly. "Since I peeked then, obviously there's no reason for you to hide this time."

"What?"

"I must know what you look like," he said soulfully. "So you needn't hide from me now."

"You voyeur," Beckett squawked.

"Even in an exploded apartment with the towels on fire you were gorgeous," Castle murmured. Beckett blushed. "Anyway, I gave you my jacket." And it smelled of you and your bodywash for weeks. He certainly wasn't going to mention that he'd breathed her scent in, much more than once: more when that damn Demming had shown up. But Demming had been ditched and…he was here.

"Are you going to cover my arm?" Beckett snipped.

"Yes. Hang on to that robe while I move it so I can get at your arm – maybe sit down?"

"Nowhere to sit," Beckett pointed out, which was true.

"Oh." Castle disappeared, and reappeared with the chair from her father's room. "I took that room," he said, half-apologetically.

"That's okay." She sat down, and started to manoeuvre the robe downwards. Castle turned his back, though she was sure that he didn't want to. "Done," she breathed out, hoping the pain would go with it.

"Okay. Let's wrap you up." Castle grinned. "You know, usually I like the thought of unwrapping you, not wrapping you. I guess I could think of it like a present, and anticipate the unwrapping… What?"

"I'm not a thing," Beckett said indignantly. "And I'm not a present to be given either."

"I'm really keen on the idea of you giving yourself to me," Castle improved the moment. "So that would be a present, from you to me." He patted the completed covering. "You're done. You can think about being a present in your bath. If you want, I'll stay and listen to your thoughts" –

"No." Beckett tried for a glare, failed to find it, and lost all thought of glaring in another concentrated beam of heat from Castle's eyes. "No," she said again, and thought that he knew – in one of those thoroughly irritating moments of reading her mind – that she was trying to convince herself.

"Awwww," he pouted, but left, closing the door behind him. Beckett hoisted herself from the chair, dropped the robe, and sank thankfully into the hot water, wishing that it was much deeper but appreciating it all the same.

Castle went downstairs, rather more rapidly than he'd planned. Wrapping Beckett's arm had given him a perfect view of the upper curve of her breast, though thankfully the robe had remained high enough for discretion. Dammit, his hind-brain thought. Thank goodness, his frontal cortex, far more sensible, replied. His excellent memory supplied him with an extended replay of bared Beckett in her exploding apartment, which helped his composure not at all. He could hear the soft sounds of happier, but tired, Beckett above him, and firmly thrust away the urge to go and, er, help.

It took him some time to realise that his name was being called. As he dashed upstairs, he realised that it wasn't panicked shouting or, worse, screaming.

"What is it?" he asked from outside the bathroom door.

"I…I need your help," Beckett said, sounding both frustrated and embarrassed.

"Sure," Castle agreed. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah. You can't help from out there."

Definitely embarrassed. Castle bounced in, and was only a little disappointed to find Beckett buried in bubbles, blushing furiously.

"I need to wash under my arm," she forced out, blushing ever brighter, "but I can't move it."

Oh. Oh. "So you want me to move it just enough that you can wash?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Castle thought carefully before his next words. "It won't move more than an inch or two, otherwise we'll do some more damage. Can you work with that?"

"I'll have to. I can't stand feeling dirty – don't say it!"

Castle exaggeratedly snapped his mouth shut and pretended to zip it up for good measure. Beckett managed a tiny roll of eyes, which he saw with some relief. "Okay," he repeated. "If I come round and – no. Lemme go get my phone to look up how to move it just a little in the right direction." He hurried off, found his phone and returned, then sat on the chair he'd left in the bathroom and began to search. After a while, in which Beckett had said nothing and kept her eyes closed, he concluded. "This is going to be tricky," he said.

"Yeah," she sighed.

"But if we're really, really careful, we can do it. Don't you try to do anything. I'll move your arm a very little and you absolutely have to tell me if it hurts – more," he added at her look. "You can work with an inch or so, can't you?"

"Yeah."

Castle barely moved her arm, but it seemed to be enough for Beckett's long, lean fingers to wash between arm and side, to clean her armpit. "How did you do it the other day?" he asked thoughtlessly.

She coloured. "Carefully." From which Castle understood tried it myself and it hurt like hell. He bit his tongue till it metaphorically bled, and said nothing. "This is better," she added, and he nearly dropped her arm.

"Are you done?" he asked. "Because the bubbles are starting to reduce, and while I'd be delighted to stay and watch – or pop them" –

"No, thank you," she said firmly. "I can dry myself."

"I could do that, too," Castle oozed.

"I bet, but you aren't going to."

"Awwww, no fun."

Beckett didn't answer, for a second. Then, "Could you let me get out, please?"

"Sure," Castle said, and delicately put her arm down the inch or so he'd raised it before vacating the bathroom and shutting the door behind himself.

Beckett didn't move. Her toes were probably prunes by now, but… No, she wasn't any fun. She wasn't good at fun. She hadn't been good at fun for years, now. Even when fun, in the shape of a highly interested Detective Demming, had presented itself on a plate, she'd not been able to enjoy it. And then she'd simply buried the vision of Castle walking away in her work, and left any possibility of any fun in future behind.

Yet here he was. She sniffed, and determinedly blinked: oh-so-carefully exited her bath and dried herself, and curled into her robe again. "Castle?" she called. "Could you take the wrappings off my arm?" The thud of feet on the stairs confirmed his agreement.

"Castle's excellent unwrapping service, at your service," he announced, and grinned. "Hang on to your robe – or, preferably, don't." He smirked. "I know which I'd prefer."

"Can you be any more obvious?" Beckett snipped.

"Oh, yes." He grinned wolfishly, and undid a button on his shirt.

"You can stop right there." She could hear her own voice waver. She didn't want him to stop right there. He could carry right on down. And then she could curl up against a warm, wide chest and be cossetted and comforted and cuddled, which, right now, would be just plain perfect – if only she didn't have a ruined, painful shoulder to deal with. That wide chest wouldn't stay warm with her thrice-damned ice pack next to it, and she couldn't curl into it while keeping her arm immobilised. The world, Beckett decided, was just not fair.

"Let's get this stuff off again," Castle said gently, and did so, "and then get you downstairs to your recliner and an ice pack."

"I guess," Beckett said, suddenly tired again. It was surely exhaustion that kept her talking. "Will you stay till I go to sleep?"

"Sure I will." Castle reached out and caressed her back in the unlovely robe. "C'mere, and be propped up for a moment, then we'll get you settled." He stepped into her, and loosely put his arms around her, low at her waist, neatly below the sling. She almost fell against him, and only the impediment of her arm stopped her.

It didn't stop Castle. He held her just close enough for her to be warmed and embraced, but not tightly; stroking her back and nuzzling into her hair. It was all stupidly, wonderfully comforting. Unfortunately, he untangled himself, and tugged at her good hand. "C'mon. Downstairs, before you fall asleep standing up." Beckett half-stumbled after him, and was then ensconced in her recliner, propped and padded, and then iced.

"Not a Popsicle," she muzzed.

"No. I don't hold hands with Popsicles," Castle said, "and I wanna hold your hand. Give it here."

She actually did. His big span closed on hers, lightly trapping her fingers, and petting with his thumb. She relaxed into the soothing touch. "Don' go," she breathed as her eyes shut. "Don'…" but she was asleep before she finished the sentence, and certainly before he answered.

"Never, Beckett," he murmured. "Never going to go away again."

Castle stayed holding Beckett's hand until he grew both bored and uncomfortable. He detached himself, winced at the whimper, but made himself comfortable, brewed coffee, and found his phone, laptop and book to keep himself occupied until he was sleepy. He looked at the arrangement of furniture, and changed it so that the couch ran parallel to the recliner and touching it, which meant that his hand could hold hers without any difficulty. As soon as his fingers slipped around hers, she eased: her breathing deepened and her face smoothed out. He didn't – though he so badly wanted to – raise her hand and kiss her fingers; he didn't pepper her slumberous face with more kisses. He wouldn't risk waking her, when she needed sleep so badly.

He woke with a start. Beckett's hand had left his, and the rest of Beckett was lurching towards – oh, towards the bathroom. Okay. He didn't need to panic. She wasn't sleepwalking or grabbing her gun to shoot him; there were no burglars or vandals or zombies. So he dropped his eyelashes, pretended to be asleep and listened for her return.

Shortly, she shuffled back again, and settled herself, huffing out short sharp breaths that racked his heart as she did.

"You're awake," she murmured.

"Yeah."

"Thought so. Breathe differently." Her fingers moved on the pillow, and his met them without thought. Silence fell, for a few moments. "Didn't go."

"No."

"But you did go."

Castle held his breath. In this dark night, maybe they could talk truth.

"I thought you had gone," he said quietly. "I thought you had gone with Demming."

"Couldn't. When it came to it…I couldn't."

She'd said that before.

"I didn't know that," Castle said. "So I invited Gina. If it wasn't you… But it didn't work. She was gone after two weeks, with some pretty nasty commentary. I barely even kissed her."

"Guess that wasn't what she expected," Beckett said, with a hint of wakefulness.

"No." Castle didn't comment on what he'd expected with Gina. "She wasn't you."

"Demming wasn't you." Her fingers clutched at his, and she yawned, and fell silent again. "I missed you."

"I missed you. I couldn't write without you."

"I just worked. There wasn't anything else."

"You got hurt."

"I didn't try to," she said, in a tired, defeated tone. "But there wasn't any reason to be extra careful. You weren't going to get hurt, because you weren't there."

Castle bit his tongue. So you getting hurt didn't matter? he wanted to say. Because it does matter.

"I didn't have to protect anyone."

Not even yourself, Beckett. And you didn't even try.

"So what happened?" he said softly, hidden in the covering, comforting dark of deeply rural New York State.

"Perps got a little lively. One tried to punch me out, and missed, but he got my arm. It was only bruised. Second one some dumb officer forgot to shackle, and he hit me in Interrogation. And then I took down that robber." She yawned again, which to Castle's mind explained the dead tones. He thought she might be too tired to realise what she was revealing.

"Even for New York's Finest, a dead arm, two concussions and a shot-up shoulder is a pretty good tally," he teased – which had to be better than cuffing her to the chair and screaming never never never do that again. It cost him to be light and humorous, but he managed – though if she'd seen his face, it wouldn't have worked. "But maybe have a break from the injuries. Stick to stuffing them in jail."

"Hurts me less," she breathed, "but at least it wasn't you."

Castle squeaked, and tried to smother it. Beckett didn't seem to notice, but her fingers gripped and grasped at him.

"I couldn't have borne it if it were you," she whispered, but her last word fell away and her breathing slowed, just as she was admitting something that Castle had hoped to hear for most of the last year and a half. Beckett cared. She really, really cared. He fell asleep, still holding her hand, smiling.

When he woke, he regretted sleeping on the couch as he creaked to vertical, and regretted still more sleeping in his clothes, now creased and uncomfortable. He had pins and needles in his fingers, and a definite and painful crick in his back and neck. He stretched hugely, and then went to shower, as hot as he could bear it. It helped, but not enough. He really didn't need a reminder that he was past forty now, especially when Beckett was ten years below that.

Washed and shaved, some way refreshed, he made coffee, meditatively ate a pastry, and wondered what to do with the day. Nothing much, he concluded. Cosset Beckett, maybe even snuggle, and just enjoy this new, hopeful, closeness.

Beckett herself was still asleep, and remained so for some time after Castle had finished his pastry, another coffee, and half a chapter. He was more than a little worried when she finally stirred, mumbled sleepily, and winched her eyes open, all of which he watched with mild amusement and considerable affection. He did not watch her automatic attempt to stretch, wince and yelp with any affection at all.

"Ow," she said, and then caught Castle's eye. "I keep forgetting not to do that."

"Isn't the physical therapist supposed to call you?"

"Yeah, but probably not till tomorrow. Great. I hate PT."

"Mm?"

"Everyone gets injured on the job occasionally."

"Oooohhhh, tell me the story."

Beckett coloured painfully.

"Was it embarrassing?" Castle grinned.

"I tripped and sprained my ankle, chasing down a suspect. They thought I'd broken it, but I'd only" – only? – "torn the ligament a little. The PT was worse than the injury."

"Tripped?"

"On a banana skin."

Castle howled with laughter. "You're kidding me. You have got to be kidding me. No-one trips on banana skins outside of a Three Stooges movie."

"Did," Beckett humphed. "Stop laughing at me."

Castle looked at her scarlet face. "I've had PT too," he said. "An equally silly accident."

Beckett looked a little less scarlet and a little more interested. "I was sixteen and working in a diner, cleaning up and kitchen portering."

"Mmm?"

"Well, I knocked over a container of mayonnaise" – Beckett grinned widely for the first time in weeks – "and then I slipped on it and fell flat on my ass, and when I tried to stand up I slipped again" – she snorted – "and then I landed on my wrist and broke it a bit."

"How do you break it a bit?"

"I chipped the bone, but I didn't realise for a while, and then by the time it got fixed I needed PT to get mobility back. And it hurt," he complained.

"Yeah," Beckett agreed, and then smiled evilly. "You know what else hurts?"

"No?"

"Me not having coffee. Help me up so I can make it."

"Nope," Castle said cheerfully. "You sit there like a good detective and I'll make it."

She spluttered for as long as it took him to brew the coffee and bring it back, but drinking it easily overcame her indignation.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially the guests whom I cannot thank directly.