Close Encounters 3.5
"Kate-love, I need you to sit up," he murmured.
She felt awareness return slowly, a hand down her body, and then the rocking of water against her skin. Her hair was heavy, but he was holding her up, she roused drowsily to sit in his lap, still in the bath.
She shivered and winced as it pulled her skin around the stitches.
"I can't carry you out of the bathtub," he said softly. "You remember what happened last time."
She'd laugh at that but it took all her effort to hold herself upright as he stood quickly, hopped out of the bathtub with a speed and agility she envied and longed for and ached over. He was already turning back for her, his fingers at her elbows, but she knew she'd have to do this part herself.
He leaned his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. "You got this, Kate."
She nodded, jostling his head from hers, noses bumping, and she breathed out, slowly got her feet under her. He helped as best he could without putting too much strain on her elbows (which always transmitted the work to her back) and then she was swaying into his chest as her body gave out.
He caught her, an arm low around her waist, his mouth at her ear and whispering nonsense that she believed anyway. Would always believe.
"I got you, I got you. You won't fall. You can do this. Lift your knee, sweetheart. Just a little more and then I'll get you in bed and we can warm up and you can sleep. Okay?"
She dragged her knee over the rim of the bathtub, stumbled with him as he tried not to carry her and so pull on her stitches. She mustered enough will to get her feet moving, walking, and he was wrapping a towel around her loosely as he pushed her towards the bed.
"I'm so tired," she let out, sighing with it. She hated herself for being weak enough to admit it, but she couldn't stop.
He managed to control her fall down to the bed, but she was barely sitting and swaying, her hair over her good shoulder and dripping wetly down her breast. She shivered again and the goose bumps that rose made her stiffen.
"I've got pain pills for you, Kate-"
"No."
"Just one."
"No," she said again, struggling to open her eyes. "No more. They make me sick."
He swallowed and she knew that had gotten to him. She reached up a hand to touch her wet hair, but he gently nudged her fingers away and began drying it, rubbing the strands between the ends of the towel.
"Okay," he said finally. "Let me find you a clean shirt."
She swayed on the bed, watched him pull another one of his own tshirts from his suitcase before coming back to her. She let him ease the white cotton over her head, let him manipulate one arm through but she stuttered back when he started to rotate the other one.
"Can't," she said on a grunt, shaking her head, arm pressed into her chest. "Don't-"
"I won't," he murmured. "I won't. Lie down, Kate."
She opened her fist on a long breath in, pushed her fingers into the place at his ribs; he was wearing only a towel around his waist. "You first," she said finally.
He stroked the damp hair back from her face and nudged into her mouth for a kiss, soft, warm, her body unfurling with slow and heady pleasure.
"I missed you," she said stupidly, because he'd been here this whole time. All along.
Well, almost all along. He'd left. But he came back. He'd always come back, right?
He hummed and his fingers carded through her hair, held her against him for a moment more before he got up. "I'll be right back."
She curled down into the bed and laid there watching him, his movements quick and smooth as he yanked the towel away, hung both of theirs in the bathroom. She watched him come back, strong and tall and broad, handsome and certain. He stepped into boxers and then slid under the sheets, moving her over gently.
She draped herself over his chest, her bad arm and stiff shoulder pulled in tight under the shirt, wishing to have him at her back again but not sure she could survive it either. She could hear the slow measure of his heart and the loose-limbed warmth of him under her. She was grateful, for the first time since she'd been shot, of how he cared for her.
She was letting herself be okay with it, slowly but surely.
Kate circled her fingers at his hip and then drew her hand up to curl at his ribs, the heat of him thawing her skin.
He was so good for her. And she was so bad for him. She was mint and pickles to his wounds and dumping him on a camel bound for the Australian consulate. What had Kate Beckett ever done for him? She'd gotten him to eat syrup and frivolous calories? She'd cracked open his well-guarded life? What were those things against the balance of everything he'd lost for her - his team, his job, his place.
He'd said to ignore his father, but Black was blunt in his words and unadorned in his speech; he told it so plainly that there was no way to ignore it. Castle was in over his head with Bracken and the rest of them.
She was going to get him killed.
"Stop thinking," he said suddenly. "Kate, just stop. It's going to take time and therapy to turn off the damn messages in your head that my asshole father put there. Believe me; I know. So just stop for tonight. Okay?"
"Tell me a story," she murmured into the darkness, hunching against him. Her brain wouldn't turn off; it kept choking her with ever tightening circles of thought - like a noose. "Castle. Tell me a story."
He sighed. "A story? Here's a story. You think you're the one with an obsession? Well, remember Foley?. It was in Ireland that I swore I'd ruin Foley's gun smuggling operation and destroy the man, make him pay."
She took in a shaky breath and slid her knee over his hip, settling deeper into him. "Why?"
"He's evil incarnate."
She swallowed at that and felt his fingers combing delicately through her damp hair.
"He sent a woman to kill me. Her name was Colleen. I thought I loved her."
Kate closed her eyes. Maybe she shouldn't have asked.
He was drowning once more, the woman's weight heavy over his in the water, her hair tangled in his fingers, the knife-
Castle opened his eyes and took in a lungful of cool, dry air. He wasn't in Ireland; this wasn't Colleen.
Why did it haunt him now? - what he'd done to a woman he'd most likely loved. Or had thought, for a time, he might one day love like he ought to, like most people did.
"It was the first time I broke protocol," he said quietly, because he needed to explain, needed to understand for himself as well. "Colleen was dark haired, pale, a small thing. Like she. . ."
Kate sighed over him and he stopped trying to finish that sentence.
"I should have stuck to the plan. But I thought I was smart, thought I could use her to my own advantage. I ignored Black's every order to cut bait, and instead I went fishing. She tried to get me to talk - I could see that much at least - and I knew she was somehow related to the Foley group - how could she not be? They were using her to get information from me, but I knew I was better, smarter. So I abandoned the plan."
Kate's fingers spread across his ribs and her thumb suddenly brushed hard over his shoulder. He reached for her hand and gripped it, needing more than just the heavy anchor of her body, needing the connection, the way they fit together.
"We were swimming in a lake near my posting. I'd just gotten a message from the North Ireland office about her, confirming my theory about her place in the operation, but apparently she'd intercepted it first. So she knew that I knew. She teased me, I could feel her in the water like a silkie, and then she popped up behind me and slid her arm around my neck. And she said, I'm sorry about Evan."
"Evan?"
"A boy in town. He'd been killed by Foley's enforcers the night before. Evan had - he'd been running messages for me. She'd found him. I'd been waiting all day for him to come home, but he never-"
Her hand squeezed his and he sucked in a breath.
"She shouldn't have known anything about Evan," he said finally.
"Oh, no."
"And then she was drawing the knife across my neck-"
"Oh, God-"
"But I broke her wrist and twisted out of her grip, struggled for the knife. I brought my weight down on her so that we sank under the water."
Her hand squeezed his so tightly that it brought their palms together; her mouth pressed to his shoulder.
"I got my arm around her throat, my other hand around her wrist, and her body bucked against mine, so much strength, and then I snapped her neck."
He heard Kate's ragged breath in, the tension of her body over his and he closed his eyes.
"I'm sorry. That's not a good bedtime story."
She was shaking. Her fingers untangled from his, dislodging his hand, and his heart squeezed to keep from breaking.
Her palm came lightly to his jaw and then she was liquid heat over him, her mouth at his, her tongue pushing inside, her body a brand. She broke the kiss after entirely too short a time, her breath catching in her chest.
"Terrible bedtime story," she sighed. "But apparently it was the one you needed to tell."
He wrapped his arms around her neck to avoid her back, and something in him broke open with light when she didn't even flinch, didn't hesitate, just burrowed tighter into him.
Castle pressed his mouth to her temple, knew his teeth were scraping her skin, but his kiss was too relieved, too fucking pathetic and grateful for him to control it.
"I love you," he groaned. "I love you, just you, only you."
When she woke cold, her eyelids dragged open and she pulled her arms into her body with a grunt.
He was standing by the bed and already drawing a blanket around her, but he'd somehow gotten her other arm through the sleeve of the shirt. She blinked at him. The morning light was pale green in the room where the summer's leaves screened the window. She slipped her hand out from under the covers and caught his fingers as he moved to leave.
"Castle," she rasped.
He leaned over and kissed her temple, brushing the hair back from her face where it'd kinked up after drying last night.
"It's early," he said softly. "And you need to sleep."
And that's all it took. She did.
He kept hovering, like he thought now she was breakable now that his father had gotten to her, now that she'd done one stupid thing and tried to run after him on a horse; he thought she was going to fall apart.
But she wouldn't. She wasn't going to break.
"Castle," she growled, eyeing him from the bed as he tried to dress her.
"Let me just-
"Castle. I can get my damn shirt on." Barely. But she could. "Just give me enough time, would you?"
He backed up, nodded, but he still stared at her.
"Castle, how about you. . .make us breakfast. Okay? I'll get dressed and you can. . .not stare at me creepily."
He sighed, and she could see his fingers twitching. He wanted to help so badly, didn't he? But Kate could get her shirt on, if given enough time.
"Breakfast," she reminded him.
He turned and went hesitantly out the door.
When Castle tried to feed her, she had enough.
"Castle," she growled. "I swear, if you don't back the hell off, I'm going to break your fingers."
He dropped the fork and shoved his chair back from the table, stalked out.
Her nostrils flared and she shoved a hand through her hair, growled at herself, at him, at the damn wound that wouldn't heal.
"Castle," she called out.
She heard nothing, but some instinct for him made her lift her head from her hand and look towards the doorway. He was still standing there, like he'd been silently watching her. And that pissed her off as well, but she hadn't meant to hurt his feelings.
"Beckett."
"Just give me an hour, okay? I just need an hour." She winced at the shuttering of his eyes, but she couldn't and wouldn't take it back. She needed to go at her own pace, needed to be better, stronger, in control again.
That wouldn't happen if he was feeding her breakfast.
He gave her an hour. Exactly an hour, and then he came back for her.
She was still in the kitchen. Breakfast half-eaten. The toast was gone, but the eggs were cold and untouched and the bacon - not at all. She was leaning into her good elbow on the table and rubbing her fingers at her temple.
"Beckett?"
She jerked and hissed with pain, gritted her teeth at him with a flash of anger in her eyes. "Castle."
"You need to eat before physical therapy."
"Has it been an hour?" she said instead.
"Yes."
"Fuck."
He couldn't help the flicker of a grin that crossed his face at her curse and all the ire went right out of her, a long sigh that seemed to make her deflate. He stopped grinning.
"Help me up," she got out.
"Help you-"
"Don't act like you haven't been hovering in the hallway for the last twenty minutes listening to me try to stand up, Castle."
Yeah. He had.
Castle went to her immediately and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her up easily. He felt her body stiffen at the movement, and her breath hot on his neck, but she got to her feet.
He knew she hated needing him.
He was waiting for her outside the PT room, and she listed down the hall away from him but couldn't keep her balance. He caught her and practically carried her to the bedroom, laid her down on her stomach. She fell asleep before she could finish growling at him.
She really hated the damn therapist. The man drove in once a week to try to open her like a nut, cracks in her walls, and she knew it was for the best, knew that it would only help, but it didn't. It didn't help at all.
It made her edgy and pissed; it made her feel raw and weepy.
She didn't like being that person.
"Look, Dr. King, I don't think this helps. It just drags up issues that I've dealt with."
"Kate. Dragging them up means they are still issues, wouldn't you think?"
She growled and tilted her head back, but her spine spasmed and she grunted with it, dropped her chin to keep the muscles from clenching so hard.
"Kate. Would you like to tell me about your mother's death?"
"No."
"All right. What about your father-"
"No. This isn't about my parents," she growled at him. He was a nice man, really. Soft-spoken, clean hands; he never made notes while she spoke. He listened carefully and his eyes regarded hers with honor and dignity.
She missed dignity. She missed someone looking at her like she had it under control if given enough time.
Fuck. She was messed up.
"It's not about your parents; it's about you," Dr King said gently. "Isn't it, Kate?"
"It's about - it's about getting my damn badge back, my gun, and getting back out there. Instead, I'm stuck here."
"Well, isn't it clear to you that you can't right now?"
She could hit him, she really could.
"Kate. Can you get back out there - with your gun and your badge?"
"No," she ground out, her chest tight with it, back aching. She just waned to lie down.
"So why can't you let yourself rebuild, Kate? It takes time. You're not perfect."
"But I-" Kate stopped, pressed the back of her hand to her cheek and felt the tears.
"You what?"
She should be.
She should be perfect.
Castle trekked the rugged path in the early light, breathing through a humidity that was already making him sweat at six in the morning. His tshirt clung to his shoulders and chest like a second skin, and he took another swig of his water bottle to combat dehydration and then hooked it back on his climbing harness.
He had another mile or so before he'd turn around and run it back, but this leg was the most difficult, harrowing at times when the trail narrowed down to barely a toehold. He hadn't done the endurance climb in years, not since his twenties at least, when he'd been to Stone Farm after his own bullet wound.
He'd forgotten a lot. He'd forgotten that his fingers were usually too fat, his hands too broad and wide to fit in the usual holds. He wasn't certain how he was going to get back on a few of the passes, but he'd figure it out. That was part of being an operative - thinking on his feet.
He scraped a hand across the back of his neck to dry the pools of sweat, and then he found the trail again, maneuvered his body through the narrowing gorge and towards the sharp incline. He had to use his hands to pull himself up, hooking his carabiner into the permanent bomber anchor in the face of the rock. He set his next point, hooked his harness to it, and climbed higher, sweat running into his eyes.
He found a bucket grip and rested for a moment, the large handhold able to give him enough of a grip that he could hang there indefinitely. He tested his core by letting go, barn-dooring out, one side swinging free, and then he angled himself back to the wall of rock.
His eyes stung, but he clipped his biner to the next anchor point above him and crawled up.
Raglan was dead, Maddox was dead, but Bracken had proved he had an infinite supply of assassins. Castle had to be ready.
He bumped his handhold into a tighter one, knuckles scraping, and curled himself upward by his fingertips - just to see if he could.
Beckett worked her feet slowly on the path.
Rebuilding. Had to rebuild to get back out there. She knew that. Of course she did - it wouldn't come overnight.
But she wouldn't go docilely back to bed and wait for Castle to feed her, wait for Castle to bathe her, dress her, rock her to sleep. She wasn't a child; she could do this on her own. She just needed time.
Just like Dr King had said.
She felt the rock crumble under her shoe and the slide of her feet back down the path. Her back twisted as she tried to regain her balance and she grunted in pain, finally managed to catch herself on a twisted, stunted tree.
Fuck. It wasn't like she was mountain climbing here. She was just trying to walk the damn path to the stream. It seemed like every step was against her.
She swayed for a second, dizzy and sweating in the summer sun, bowed her head to keep from passing out.
She could do this. She could rebuild.
Stronger, better. Faster.
If she'd been stronger, she would've been able to knock Castle out of the way of that bullet rather than just grabbing him and standing there like an idiot.
Instead of shoving him down when she'd seen the gun, she'd taken a damn bullet to the back like a coward.
Fuck. This wasn't easy.
Beckett growled and released the tree branch, steadied her feet on the path.
Work produced results. Physical therapy was fine, and yeah, it hurt like hell, but it was too slow, too limited. They were moving her arm around and that was it. She needed to work her legs, her balance, her core muscles. She knew what had to be done.
Rebuild.
This was the fastest way.
Castle was just coming back from his climb when he saw the silhouette on the path; the sun was in his eyes and made him squint.
Was that-?
She collapsed to her knees and he came running.
"Kate-"
"Shit, no. What are you doing here?" she groaned, on her hands in the dirt and trying to turn away from him.
And of course, she didn't have the strength left for it.
"What are you doing here?" he hissed back, crouching next to her and trying to get his arms under her.
"If you fucking carry me back to the house, I will claw your eyes out."
He stopped trying to hook her knees over his arm and just squatted there beside her. She had her eyes closed and her breaths were coming fast, but she slowly sat up. He felt like it was an intrusion to watch her battle at her own body, and he averted his eyes.
A couple weeks back, she'd fallen just outside the barn, a horse evidently saddled and waiting for her, but her body unwilling to climb the mounting blocks at the fence. It was set-up for the injured patients, but Castle knew for a fact she hadn't been cleared for the riding yet. And then a few days ago, trying to take a horse to come find him and getting thrown off.
And now she was what? Trying to fucking climb a cliff?
"This isn't on your schedule," he said, glancing over at her again.
Her eyes flashed open, a pure wave of hatred aimed straight at him. It had been panic-inducing the first week - the way her fury became a laser and he the target, and then frustrating the second week. Now it just made him sad.
She was getting stronger; she was healing, and with that strength and newfound sense of endurance, she pushed herself too far. Beckett had no concept of average. She couldn't let her progress stand; she always had to be working herself to death.
"Beckett," he said again, firmly. "This isn't on your recovery schedule."
"Would you stop reading my medical charts, Castle? It's illegal and annoying as hell."
"Would you stop killing yourself just to prove you're not a liability to me? It's annoying as hell and it's not even close to true."
She groaned and bowed towards the dirt track outside the riding ring, and he knew he'd hit the bull's-eye with that one.
"Damn it, Beckett. You're going to hurt yourself and do permanent damage if you keep this up."
"I'm already damaged."
"No. You're rebuilding. Don't you listen to the psychologist?"
She snorted at that and he smiled back, a ghost of thing, and pulled her to her knees, then stood with her, let her sway in his grip.
"I listen."
"Coulda fooled me," he muttered, but pressed his open mouth to her temple and breathed in the scent of dirt and sweat and her conditioner. He was intimately familiar with that conditioner, had rinsed it into her hair nearly every morning.
That might be part of the problem.
She shrugged her shoulders to get out from under him and took a step away.
He missed her.
He missed her so much he ached.