Close Encounters 3.5
Castle came back to Stone Farm some time after lunch the following day. She'd just managed to make toast, but he was stumbling towards the barn. Like he wasn't even going to come inside.
"Castle," she called after him, taking a firm step off the back porch and towards him on the path.
He halted and turned to look at her.
"Shit," she whispered.
He winced and stood there, his hands in his pockets. The scrape on his face was scabbed over, the black eye was fading, but now she saw the ugly rent in his shirt, and the bandages over his ribs. More bruises.
"This is how your fucking father keeps you safe?" she growled, coming towards him.
"It's work," he said, and she could see the effort it took him to just say the words.
Fuck. "Okay, come on. Inside, Castle. Come inside."
He swayed, but he followed her into the house and down the hall to the therapy room. She'd check his bandages and get him more ice and then - maybe - he'd stay put and rest.
But he didn't. He was gone a few hours later, and she spent the rest of the day telling herself she wasn't worried about him.
He was a spy; he could take care of himself.
She looked lonely in their bed, the wide space on either side of her like she hadn't even expected him to come back to it, like she was back to being a middle-of-the-bed sleeper.
He sighed and stripped off his clothes slowly, the moonlight casting a faint path towards her. His shirt got stuck and he didn't have the presence of mind nor the strength to work out how to get it over his head, so he toed off his shoes, shucked his pants, and crawled in with her.
But she woke and turned towards him.
He'd expected her to be pissed off, but she only looked at him, brought her fingers up under his shirt gently to his chest, hovering over the bandages that hid the gash along his ribs.
"It's my mother's case," she whispered. And it wasn't even a question.
"Yeah. Three months of this, that's all," he said slowly. He brought his hand up to tangle with hers, used his other hand to stroke at her bottom lip. She wasn't angry at all; she looked afraid.
"Castle. I should have your back."
"I made you a promise, Kate. And it's the best way - the only way - to keep us both safe."
"You don't even have Eastman to back you up," she whispered.
He squeezed her hand, his throat closing. "I'm fine. I need to sleep." He turned over and closed his eyes.
After a long moment, he felt her hand at the small of his back, her forehead at his shoulder blade, and he could sleep.
He'd been gone for three days when he showed up in the middle of breakfast. She yanked the scrambled eggs off the burner and turned gracelessly for him, felt him stumble and clutch at her before righting them both.
"No, go on. I could use some eggs," he said, giving her a sloppy grin that made her heart pound too hard.
"Castle," she gasped, gripping him when he swayed.
"Concussion. I'm okay."
"You can't be that good though," she growled, pushing him towards a chair and off of her. Two concussions in the span of two weeks wasn't good, but she didn't have the strength to hold him up.
He put his head in his hands and grunted, sat up straight again. "Not good. Sleep it off here."
She frowned and went back to the eggs, just to give her hands something to do that didn't include strangling him. Which she probably wouldn't be able to do anyway.
So many damn things she couldn't do. And he was dragging home beat up every few days.
"We got him," he said into the hiss of eggs on the stove.
"What?" she gasped, jerking around and wincing as it pulled.
"No, not - not Bracken. The punk that was running heroin for him. Took over for Coonan. Remember-"
"I remember," she said harshly.
"Got him."
She turned her face back to the eggs and resolutely would not allow herself to ask the details.
Like - where were you for the last three days? And before that?
When she came back from therapy, he'd just started to rouse. She'd had Logan come in and check on him, so she knew he hadn't slipped into a concussion coma, but she didn't like the way his eyes looked. And he had bruises along his torso again.
"Castle."
He shifted in the bed and groaned, tried to sit up.
"No, don't get up. Where's the ice? Logan was supposed to bring you a fresh bag."
"I don't know," he muttered.
She frowned and leaned over him carefully, her body less shaky than she'd expected after that round from Fezzik. She found the ice next to his head and brought it against his ribs, hoping to at least keep the swelling down. His body was mottled with bruises, but he didn't seem to notice; he had a bandage over his forearm and she wondered if it was the same bandage from a few days ago.
"What happened to your arm?" she murmured, sitting down at his hip and balancing the ice against his every breath.
"Fire."
"Fire?"
"Fired at. Got fired at. Just a graze."
"You got shot?" she hissed.
"Oh. Well. Last week. I-"
"Castle." She dropped the ice and cradled his arm, her fingers drifting over the gauze covering his bullet wound. "Castle, you were shot."
"No. Just at. Shot at. Difference."
"What the hell?" she growled, her fingers unconsciously squeezing. "What are you doing?"
He grunted and turned his head to look at her. "Just work. This is just work, Beckett. Remember the English channel and pirates and all of that?"
She bit her bottom lip. "But that was. . .national security. This is my mother's case."
"That's national security too," he muttered and his arm turned in her grip to lace his fingers with hers.
"It's not."
"He's a senator. Black is with me on this."
His father?
"Castle-"
"It's okay. I got it covered."
"You can't do this without me."
"I got it covered," he murmured again, and then he was asleep.
When he was gone another two days running down the last of the heroin suppliers, he came back this time with a brand new phone. He was an ass for not thinking of it before now. It took handcuffing a skanky whore and confiscating her personal effects with the woman screeching in his ear about her contacts before he realized that Beckett had no way to reach him - or anyone else for that matter. Not even her father.
He put the phone in her hands and she curled her fingers around it. She was in bed, nearly asleep, and this time it was his side of the bed. He was a bastard. And he knew it.
"What's this?" she said.
"Your phone. I should've given it to you before now."
"This isn't my phone. I don't even know where my-"
"Had to ditch it," he sighed softly. "Security. But this one's better."
She was staring at him and finally she let her eyes drift down to the iphone. It had a black case for it - standard issue - but he wished suddenly that he'd gone out and gotten her something fun. Blue or purple or stripes or something. Other than black.
"Look," he murmured, taking it from her and thumbing it on. "Same password. And here? Panic button. Calls the office."
She bit her lip. "I used that when you were stabbed."
"Uh, well. I - yeah. Okay. So no plans on being stabbed, but here's my number." He brought up his contact information. He'd already transferred all her contacts from her old phone, the one they'd had to ditch. He'd had to replicate her sim card to do it. "You can call me any-"
When he paused to consider that statement, she lifted an eyebrow.
"You can," he insisted. "Call me. But. I'll try to answer. If I can. Sometimes I can't-"
"I know," she said finally, her eyes dark. "I'm an NYPD detective. Or I damn well was. I know what it means when you're in the middle of a case."
"Not just the case. But - going after a guy. Sometimes my phone is off. But I'll always check it."
"I know," she said fiercely, like she was pissed at him.
She probably was.
"I'll text you," he said softly and leaned in to kiss her.
She pulled back. "You're not - you're going?"
"I have to. A stake out. I know I've been out of touch and I didn't mean for that to happen. So I wanted you to have a way to get in touch with me. Or well, anyone. Beckett. You can call your dad. The boys. You can't tell them where you are, and you can't stay on long, but it's a secure line."
And then she did give him a faint, flickering smile. He brushed a kiss over that smile and took it with him when he left.
She made herself an omelette and spotted Logan coming in from the hallway. "You want some?"
"Nope, just checking on you. Eggs for dinner?"
"I like eggs," she defended, but really, it was that eggs were easy. She had no idea how far she'd make it tonight, and she was ready to drop.
"Leave you to it, then. Night, Beckett."
"Good night, Logan."
She carried her plate to the table and sat down in silence, pulled her phone out to look at the lock screen.
It was him. His stupid face, goofy smile, sticking out tongue. A mimic of the one she'd put on his phone once.
She hadn't seen Castle since the night before, and she didn't expect to. He had a job to do still, and on top of that he was chipping away at her mother's case, going after Bracken, and she really wouldn't complain about that.
She'd showered and dressed by herself this morning, like every morning for the last two weeks, and she was actually relieved to be alone. She'd picked out her own clothes, she'd walked - slowly but surely - to her own physical therapy session, and she'd gone through her old case notes.
Esposito had sent them to her phone. It wasn't the same as having them in front of her to touch, to manipulate on a white board, but she could look at the cold cases and see if anything popped.
She might still be worthwhile to her team. Even here.
Beckett cut into her omelette and slowly began to eat. The noise of crickets and frogs came in the screen door and drowned out her thoughts, kept her thumb from touching the messaging app.
She would hear from him, sooner or later.
Beckett gave up on washing her hair, leaned on her side in the bathtub for a moment's rest, closed her eyes.
The phone was on the counter, and it buzzed suddenly with a text.
She jerked upright and winced at the pull in her back, sloshed stupidly out of the bathtub and nearly tripped over the side, fell to her knees with a curse.
Beckett slowly got to her feet, gripping the edge of the tub for support, and then grabbed a towel. She wrapped it around herself and reached up with her good arm to gather her hair, squeeze it out over the tub. It hurt to lean that far, but she muscled through it and dragged herself towards the counter.
It was from Castle.
She read it twice before the words made sense.
Coming home. Be there in twenty.
Her heart flipped and she cursed herself for it, dropped the towel to find her clothes, dropped the phone on accident, had to get on her hands and knees and pull it out from under the clawfoot tub, her back straining and knotting in pain.
Fuck.
She sat on the floor for a moment, dizzy, the phone clutched in her fingers, and then she slowly crawled to the doorway, leveraged herself up, and walked into the bedroom naked.
Her shorts were there, waiting, and she slipped into them easily enough, but stood shivering as she regarded the tshirt she'd been sleeping in.
His.
Nope. Wouldn't do.
She tossed it towards the dirty clothes piled in the corner - she would take it to the laundry tomorrow, if she had the strength - and instead went slowly for her stuff in the drawer. She had a thin camisole with lace straps, purple, and she pulled it on with relish, bit her bottom lip at how stupid, totally stupid this was.
But she didn't want him to see her in his own tshirt - like she was pining for him or something. Like she fucking missed him.
No way. Let him see what he was missing.
She slipped into bed and put the phone on the table, eased down onto her side to wait.
She fell asleep.
And he never came.
She had a text from him the next morning; it'd come through nearly two hours after the first one and it said he couldn't make it. Things came up. She blinked at the message and left the phone on the side table, got up and went to the bathroom.
Logan knocked on her door as she was just getting ready; he came inside at her welcome and checked her over. "Therapy early today. You mind?"
She hadn't had breakfast; she'd been too slow to wake, too slow to dress. Damn it.
"I don't mind," she answered, pushed her foot into her shoes. And then she stood and followed him.
Fuck. Bad idea, idiot, you stupid idiot.
She should've had breakfast. Should've eaten something.
She felt her head swim and pushed through, did the rep her crazy therapist asked of her, and made her legs work despite the pulsing pain in her back.
"One more," Robert said, toneless.
Fuck, she wanted to murder him.
Castle. She wanted to fucking kill him for this.
"I missed you," he breathed out, crawling in behind her and cradling her body with his. She stiffened. "Why didn't you answer my text?"
"Didn't think you needed me for that," she said dryly.
He chuckled and slipped his hand under her shirt, flat against her stomach, felt her warmth. The bed was still cool, so she hadn't been here long; he hadn't woken her.
Her tension melted slowly and he pressed his mouth to her neck, nuzzled his nose into the soft skin. She felt good; she felt strong, actually, and he tightened his arms a little and tried to keep away from the bullet wound in her back.
"Any war injuries?" she murmured.
"A few. Fine. I'm fine. Papercut and a jammed finger."
"Papercut," she sighed out.
He smiled and brushed his lips at her spine, touched his tongue to the skin there. She shivered and stiffened again, and he realized he might be hurting her.
He slid his palm to her side, feeling her ribs, skirted his thumb over the rise of her hip. Her bones slipped under his fingers; she was thin but she'd gained muscle, he could tell.
"You eat dinner?" he said suspiciously.
She grunted and knocked at his hand. "Yes."
"I haven't," he murmured. "But I'm too tired to get up and make something. Tomorrow morning, I'll make us a feast. How's that?"
"Okay."
"Kate," he sighed and couldn't help tightening his arm around her again, nudging closer. This time her body was less against him, so maybe the pain had receded. "I missed you."
"Funny way of showing it, Castle."
He grinned because he was trying to be good, trying to keep from hurting her, but if she wanted. . .
He skimmed his fingers back along her stomach, drifted up slowly until he felt her breath hitch, knew he had her. But he wasn't trying to cause her pain; he should stop. He should really stop. His fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, stroking slowly over her skin in whorls and eddies, brushing against her belly button, along the waistband of her shorts, back up, up, up-
She gasped and her hand clenched around his, their fingers tangling, and she turned around in his embrace, faster than he thought possible. He grinned at her and saw her eyes - so dark, so very dark - but he didn't understand their meaning.
And then she was pushing him to his back in the bed and raising up over him, her mouth hot and intent on his, her teeth punishing, her lips bruising, and he welcomed it.
When they were panting, when his body ached with wanting her, she stopped.
She dropped her forehead to his chest, fingers tight at his ribs, her breath coming in ragged gulps.
He smoothed his hands up and down her thighs, smiled into her hair, kissed the edge of her ear. "Love you, Kate."
She shivered and settled against him, and soon she was asleep.
Castle startled her in the hallway the next day, right after her second physical therapy session. He pushed away from the wall and came to help, but she'd already recovered and moved past him.
"You're here," she said, heading for the kitchen. She felt less brittle than usual.
"I brought a snack. You hungry?" He was holding up a plastic bag and wriggling his eyebrows.
She gestured to the open doorway of the kitchen, let him go ahead of her. "Always hungry after PT."
"That's what I thought," he said, a note of triumph in his voice. She liked the swagger in his walk, the confident sexiness he had about him again. She'd missed that.
So she followed him inside the kitchen and moved to the fridge. "What'd you bring me?"
"Cherries."
She turned quickly to stare at him a moment, then shrugged it off, gave him a smile. "Sounds good, Castle. How long are you here for?"
His face fell, but he seemed to blow it off. "An hour. Enough, right?"
No. But. She could be okay with it.
After the cherries he was gone for two days, but when he got back, it was a sparkly white case for her phone; she switched it out with the black one and it felt more like hers. After that it was a week gone and then a bag of stuff from her apartment - mostly clothes, but a framed photo of herself with her father outside his cabin had been put on top.
When he came back after seventy hours with only a bloodied lip and his arm in a sling, she was grateful there were no gifts with it this time. She'd been starting to feel kept. Beckett sent him to the PT room with Logan to administer some ultrasound to his sprained shoulder while she tried to decide what to make them for a late dinner.
He slumped back into the kitchen with his eyes cloudy, and she knew he'd been given some pain meds. She was grateful he'd taken them without much of a fight; he was different from her when it came to the recovery program.
He followed it.
She smirked and came to him at the table, scraped her fingers through his hair and tugged his head back so she could see him. "Baby, you look wiped out."
"Not enough that I missed baby," he muttered, cracking one eye open and closing the other.
She scratched her nails in his scalp and let go, moved slowly back to the counter. She had made instant mac and cheese a few times, a hot dog once, a lot of scrambled eggs. She debated for a moment, then glanced back to her drowsy, drooping partner.
"Want soup?" she asked.
"Anything. Don't care. I want to crawl in bed with you and not come out for a few days."
So she grabbed a can of instant chicken noodle and set about making that happen.
She woke in the night to him curled at her hip, his forehead against her side, his free arm looped over her waist. She was on her stomach to sleep, but she turned and moved into him, matched his embrace.
He didn't rouse, but she stayed awake, alert, and stroked her fingers over his jaw, his neck, the rough edge of the sling around his shoulder and arm. He had a new scar just under his collarbone, it sort of matched hers, and she touched her thumb to it with a sigh.
She didn't want to fall asleep, but she'd started going to therapy twice a day now and she was exhausted.
And he was here.