Chapter 23

"I need space," Beckett eventually choked out. "I'm going outside." She lurched to her feet. "I don't want to kill myself!" she shot as she slammed the door behind her.

Castle looked hopelessly at the closed door, and then began to clear the table. That hadn't gone well.

Or…was it as bad as he thought? She hadn't thrown him out. She hadn't said she was trying to kill herself, so he could now discount that particular form of (unconscious) emotional blackmail. She needed space – and the only reason to need space was so that she could think. In which case…he might have made a dent in her concrete skull to let in some common sense. She simply could not go on taking more and more risks until she did something fatally stupid.

He washed up, poured himself some more wine, and waited.

"I wasn't." Beckett announced in clarion tones.

Beckett regretted slamming the door as soon as she pushed it – though how shoving with her right arm could hurt her left shoulder escaped her – but didn't regret her exit in the slightest.

She sat down on a stump, slowly and carefully, and took out her anger and pain with a furious series of muffled shrieks interspersed with language that had never been within a mile of being printed in a family newspaper.

Castle was wrong. Totally and utterly and completely wrong. How could he think that of her? She hadn't wanted to die, she just hadn't needed to hold back. She'd been able to turn the full force of her investigative effort on to catching criminals, without the restraint that making sure Castle didn't get hurt had imposed. She'd done that plenty of times before.

Yeah, said an unpleasant little voice in her head. Every time you got hurt by something else. Your dad. Will. Those other guys who meant nothing. Every single time. You go straight for it, and yeah, sure you carry a gun and you can spar, but you don't exactly try to defuse the situations where you might have to use them, do you?

Why should she? Her job was to get the bad guys off the streets as fast as possible. Protect and serve.

How're you going to protect and serve now?

What?

You can't get the bad guys off the streets right now. You won't be able to for months. How's going in hard working out for you?

The voice sounded horribly like Castle. Not her silly, teasing writer, but the cold, flat, dispassionate analysis of a few moments ago. "You cope by taking more risk. Where does that stop?"

Up until now, it had always stopped before she couldn't do her job.

Realisation hit her like a freight train. This time, she hadn't stopped until she'd been seriously hurt. After Will, she hadn't stopped until she'd been close to getting hurt. After her dad had fallen, she hadn't stopped until she'd trained herself to exhaustion. Oh, shit. She'd been going further each time, and she hadn't seen it.

Until now.

Oh, shit. What would have happened next time?

You would have been dead, said the flat voice. How would that work out for you, do you think?

Beckett stared, horrified, into the far distance. She didn't want to be dead. That had been her instant, appalled reaction to Castle, and her parting shot as she slammed the door (dumb action) and it was her thought now, after some analysis.

She didn't want to be dead.

So why had she kept on taking more and more risks?

Adrenaline junkie, the flat voice said. And you want to be the hero.

What? She did not. She didn't want public acclaim or accolades or fame.

Not because you want others to laud you. Because you want it for you. Fills the gap.

What gap? There was no gap. She was perfectly happy with her life.

At least don't lie to yourself. You already know that you were taking risks every time something went wrong – every time someone walked away from you. Left you. Left a gap.

Beckett didn't like this internal voice. It spoke far too much uncomfortable truth, and it wasn't shutting up.

So you filled it by being a hero – solve the case, get justice for those left behind. You don't need anyone else to validate it, you just need to know you did it. Covers the one time you didn't. Fills the gap – for a while. Just like the nothing relationships.

Beckett gasped.

And now this isn't a nothing relationship and you don't know how to handle it when it went wrong, which wasn't only Castle's fault, just so you get that clear. You had just as much to do with it. Just like you didn't know how to handle your mom being murdered or your dad drowning in booze or Will trying to decide your life for you. So you went back to something you definitely could handle, and then you started trying to prove that you could handle more and more of it, taking more and more risks. That's not the sort of over-achiever you want to become – you'll end up over-achieving right into a six-foot wooden box.

Which brought her right back to the main point: she didn't want to be dead.

And the second. You want Castle. Screw that. You're in love with Rick Castle.

Beckett ignored that one. Being alive was the first point. If she weren't alive, there wasn't much point wanting (being in love with) anything or anyone. She sat on her stump and took a long, hard look at her behaviour. It hurt. Stupidity always hurt.

She wiped her eyes, stood up, metaphorically shook herself down, and walked back inside.

"I don't," she announced.

"Don't what?" Castle asked, coming sharply to attention at her battlefield tone.

"I'm not trying to kill myself and I don't want to die." Castle gave her a hard look. "But…" She sat down. "It's complicated." She sagged.

Castle sat next to her on the couch, and automatically put an arm around her. Beckett didn't look at him, and didn't relax into his arm, spine rigid. "So tell me about it." Totally predictably, there was utter silence.

Abruptly, Castle realised that Beckett was repressing tears. He stopped waiting for her to soften, and tightened his arm around her, pulling her in and turning her face into his shoulder. She didn't co-operate, but she didn't resist. He thought that she'd simply withdrawn into herself, oblivious to anything and anyone around her. "Tell me about it," he repeated. She didn't respond in any way at all. He couldn't see her face or hands: no hint of any reaction. She might not have heard him. Her breathing remained harsh, scraping through her throat, shallow, as if each jagged inhalation hurt. "Tell me," he ordered.

"You won't…" she trailed off.

Won't what? Castle wondered. The inflection had suggested that he wouldn't understand. It certainly hadn't been a plea: no hint of you won't go, will you? "I sure won't understand if you don't tell me anything," he pointed out, one semitone from irritability.

"I'm a good cop," she insisted.

Uh? Castle thought, but kept his tongue behind his teeth.

"It's what I do. Be the best cop I can be. It's…it's everything. Something I can count on."

Castle's neurons began to fire. The answer was in there – he had it. "No matter what went wrong, being a cop was right," he said. "So if anything went wrong, you did more of what was unquestionably right. So you worked harder – more overtime – and harder, and if it would catch criminals better, you took more risks to show yourself you were doing the right things at the right time to get the right result. Because you didn't cut corners in investigating. You just…went at it harder."

She nodded.

"I get it, you know." He wrapped her in more closely. "I do. When something goes wrong, you cling to what's right."

"There's more," she mumbled.

"Mm?" he coaxed. "Tell me."

The dam finally broke. Beckett spilled out words faster than Niagara Falls, and with almost as much water accompanying them. Castle, concentrating hard, picked out the key points, and nuzzled into her hair in comforting support. Always back to her mother's murder. Always trying to compensate for not solving it.

"I can't change," she snuffled. "I'm always going to be chasing the answer."

"Nope," Castle said firmly. "Well, yes, you'll always want the answer – until you find it – but that doesn't mean you can't change the way you go about things." He smirked smugly. "I'm here, for a start, and you're all cuddled up to me. That's a pretty big change." The smugness intensified. "I knew you'd see my good points and essential hotness eventually."

"It was eclipsed by your ego," Beckett snarked.

Castle simply smiled into her hair. "Obviously you sneaked around the penumbra to see the reality."

Beckett growled, without much malice. Castle petted, and the growl diminished. He looked down at her head. "Look at me," he suggested, and when she didn't, crooked a finger under her chin to tip her head back.

His lips met hers an instant later: her gasp muffled by his mouth on hers, teasing and gentle, tongue sliding along the seam, then withdrawing. She parted under his entreaty to allow him entrance, and he dived right in, hand slipping to cup her head, to keep it turned to his so that he could explore at his leisure. Exploring Beckett was a pastime he'd happily pursue for the rest of his life. His hand sneaked under her shirt, but confined itself to petting the smooth skin at her waist, without wandering further. Even that small touch was addictive: the heat flaring through his veins from his fingers and pooling in his groin. From the small sounds she was making, he thought she was just as heated; when her long fingers glided under his shirt, he was sure of it.

Some time later, when she was soft, lax, and curled in his lap, Castle vaguely realised that it was late, and at least half of Beckett's laxity was likely exhaustion. When she yawned hugely, he was sure of it.

She creaked off his lap to stand up, but she wobbled so much that he clamped hands around her slim waist to steady her, then pushed her back enough so that he could rise too. "Bedtime," she gaped.

"Yeah," Castle agreed. "C'mon."

She plodded upstairs: Castle right behind, never quite losing contact with her. In her bedroom, she sat down on the bed, and started to remove her pants, completely without enticement.

"I'll go wash," Castle said.

When he came back, Beckett was wrapped in the childish robe, still sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Aren't you going to bed?" he asked.

"I need to wash too," she pointed out. "Now I can."

Castle raised his eyebrows. Beckett ignored the expression as she passed him on her way to the bathroom. She returned after a few moments, in which he'd turned down the bed on her side and plumped up her pillows.

"Thanks." She squirmed into the bed, still wrapped in the robe.

"Cold?"

"A bit," she said.

"It's been a rough evening," Castle consoled her. "You're tired, and it chills you from the inside out." He smiled. "I'd better keep you warm." He wriggled closer to her, then frowned. "You could take the robe off now. I'll pull the covers up."

Beckett complied, and then slipped down to rest on her pillow mountain. Castle, now sure that she was comfortable, snuggled up to her again, and slid his arm over her. "There. That's better," he murmured. "I've got you. My Beckett."

"Yours?" she asked softly.

"Always mine. Even when you're hurt or being silly or cross with me. Always, Beckett."

When he looked at her face, slow, silent tears were sliding down her cheeks. Her good hand sought his, and gripped it hard. He didn't mind the pain if only she'd never let him go. On the thought, her grip slackened, but her hand stayed around his. He heaved himself up on his elbow, traced the droplets on her face with a broad thumb, then carefully slid his arm below her neck, leaned down, and kissed each tear. "Don't cry. I'll think you don't like me, and we know that isn't true." He kissed her again, softly on the lips.

"You're mine too," she whispered, and awkwardly detached her hand to curl it round his shoulder, fingertips biting in with the force of her grasp, trying to pull him down to her.

"I'll squash you," he said gently. "I can't do that with your arm in a sling." Gentleness flashed into heat. "But when you're better," he rasped, "you'll find out what it feels like, and we'll both enjoy it." Unable to resist, he drew a fingertip line from her clavicles to the edge of her panties. "Dream of me." He would most certainly dream of her. He was uncomfortably aroused.

When Beckett woke, Castle's arm was around her middle and his legs tangled into hers. His head had inserted itself into the space between her good shoulder and her neck. Consequently, she was half-flattened and all broiled. She adjusted her position, then gave up and simply pushed the covers away. Once she was no longer in danger of death-by-heated-Castle, she squinted across at him.

Asleep, he was cute. Adorably so. His hair was tousled – she resisted the urge to run fingers through it to tidy it up – and his face smooth until she reached the shadow of stubble on his chin. Even in sleep, he smiled. Adorably. She adored it for a moment.

Her gaze wandered down. Much more muscle than she'd expected around his arms and shoulders. Nice. Shame that he was under the covers, which meant that she couldn't see further down. Still, she would simply enjoy the current view. It occurred to her that she'd seen Castle in his swimming trunks the other day, but she'd been so tired and in pain that she hadn't looked properly. Hm. Okay. She had no PT today, so a pleasant day in the sunshine with added bathing suits seemed like an excellent plan. Mrs Tousa's words floated back to her. I'd be looking at the scenery. Maybe she should look at the, er, scenery for a while. Shame she couldn't enjoy it more directly.

Oh. Ohhhhhh. For the first time, she'd felt like Beckett, mature woman, not Beckett, in-pain invalid. Her body was telling her that Castle would be extremely enjoyable. Her head, unfortunately, was pointing out that ruining her shoulder was a bad plan, and enjoying Castle would ruin her shoulder. Life was definitely not fair. She humphed.

In her field of view, a sleepy eye opened, blinked, and shut again. "No' mornin'," Castle muzzed. "Snuggle. Sleep. Cuddles." His arm patted around, found itself already to be over Beckett's slim waist, and kept itself there. The rest of him wriggled up to her. "Mine," the sleepy voice said. "C'mere." Beckett hadn't been going anywhere, and now she couldn't. Castle might be more or less asleep, but without some pretty serious extrication, which would undoubtedly lead to some pretty serious agony, she wasn't going to be able to move. On the other hand, why did she think that would be a problem? She didn't want to move, as long as she wasn't being boiled alive. She allowed Castle to snuggle. Well. More like encouraged. She wiggled a tiny fraction to be completely comfortable, which resulted in unconscious petting.

Unconscious? Suddenly, she wasn't at all sure about that. "Castle, you're awake." She poked his flank.

"Ow! Don't do that."

"So you are awake."

"Yes," he said lazily. "But it's much more fun to be asleep and snuggly."

"Pretend to be asleep," she corrected.

"You liked it, whatever. You wiggled. And you made little happy noises when I stroked you."

"I did not!"

Castle smirked. "Did so."

Beckett humphed.

"I like it when you make little happy noises. You do it when I bring you your coffee too." His smirk mutated back to a lazy, predatory smile. "And when I kiss you." He leaned up. "I don't have any coffee for you yet, but that's okay. Kisses will do." He dipped and kissed her. "Like that."

Beckett stared at him. Castle kissed her again, mischievously – and she opened under his mouth and suddenly it all exploded. He could barely hold himself back from pulling her into him regardless of her injured arm, but there was nothing to stop him propping himself above her, hard weight nestled into heated core, and kissing her with all the passion that he could give. Her hips pressed against him, firing him up further: he took her mouth again and raided; giving and then receiving back with interest.

Finally he lifted away, and rolled over, still holding her good hand. "See?" he said. "Kisses make you make happy little noises." He sat up, grinning. "But if you don't get your coffee shortly, there might be unhappy loud noises." He let go of her hand, and bounced up. "Coffee," he carolled.

Beckett watched Castle's back and backside all the way out of the door, and managed, with some effort, not to drool on the sheets. Now that she was in a better state to admire it, his ass was worthy of considerable admiration.

Then again, since she couldn't give his ass the attention it deserved, coffee was also worthy of considerable admiration. She pulled on sweatpants and a t-shirt, and went downstairs. Castle, splendidly unconscious that he was only clad in boxer shorts, had made the coffee, which was waiting for her on the table in front of the couch.

"Thanks," she said, and downed the mug in one. "I'm going to lie in the sunshine. You coming?"

"Sure. I'll just clear up." He spotted her direction. "Where are you going?"

"To put on a swimsuit," Beckett said, with a feline smile.

"Oooohhhhh. I guess I'll just have to put one on too."

Not long later, Beckett installed herself carefully on the recliner, which Castle had carried outside, and wriggled her body blissfully in the warm sunshine – with due attention to her sling and shoulder. Her sunglasses hid her closing eyes, and she simply drifted into daydreams and comfort.

"You need to ice that shoulder," Castle pointed out. Beckett pouted, and then yelped.

"What did you do that for!"

"To ice the shoulder. I want you to get better."

She glared at Castle and then at the ice pack.

"Don't glare. It's not nice. You need to heal – when's your next PT?"

"Sunday," she grumped.

"Oh. Oh, well. If you ice it and don't get up to naughty mischief" =

"I'm not five," Beckett said. "I'm doing exactly what the PT said." She scowled. "I want it to heal."

"If you're good, I'll buy you an ice cream," Castle said irritatingly. The scowl intensified. "Okay, okay. I won't tease. Let's relax in the sunshine and not worry about anything."

So they did.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.