Close Encounters 3.5

Beckett woke to the snort and rustle of horses, the autumn moonlight silvering her lashes. She opened her eyes and winced, turned her head over the soft flannel at her cheek and sought the deepest shadows.

An arm came around her and she jerked, realized she was lying on top of Castle and it was sometime in the middle of the night and she'd fallen asleep in the hayloft.

"Castle."

"Hey there," he murmured, and the smooth, low quality of his voice let her know he'd been awake for a while. "You ready to climb down?"

She braced herself but she could move, she actually could draw her knees up and straighten, pushing off against his chest and smiling at the wonderful, loose-

Ouch.

Okay, not loose. But close. Not terrible, awful knots, just a little stiff.

"If you climb down that ladder, Beckett, I'll give you a massage when we finally crawl into bed."

"That sounds heavenly," she sighed, shifting back to sit on his thigh and knee. He jerked and grabbed her, bodily lifting her off of him, and she startled at the strength of his grip and the swift pain that flashed across his face.

"Castle," she gasped.

"Nothing. It's nothing. Just can't carry you down the stairs."

So that was why he hadn't insisted on being gallant and stupid. He'd done something to his knee? "What happened?" she said, curling her fingers around his thigh and sliding down to his knee.

He snagged her hand, brought it to his lips with a smile. "Nothing. Just bruised. Can't have your bony ass sitting on it."

She gave him the smile he sought and leaned in to press a kiss against that lying mouth. She'd concentrate on getting down the ladder first, and then she'd do a thorough catalog of every scrape, every bruise, every ligament of his out of joint.

Castle pressed his thumbs into the muscles along her spine and Kate gasped against the mattress.

"Too much?"

"No, no. Keep going."

"Should I avoid-"

"No, just don't press on the scar too hard."

He settled over her ass and pushed his thumbs up her spine and made sure not to pull on the scar, couldn't help but study it closely. She was on her stomach in their bed, her eyes closed, and he could feel every knot and kink in her body under his hands. She was slowly beginning to melt.

The scar was pink but it no longer looked quite so angry, so fresh. The edges were stark at the bottom but had faded into her skin at the top, like a brutal kiss that had only now begun to dull, subsumed into the flat line of her back, right below her shoulder blade.

Her skin was freckled on her shoulders, like she'd been sitting in the sun while he'd been gone. There were other changes as well. Her jaw had that sharp hook to it, the one he loved to put his lips to, but her mouth was a line of rigid sorrow he hadn't seen before.

He dug deep into her shoulders and found not just knots that he could quickly unravel, but the ridge of muscle that spoke of hours of physical therapy. He put a warm hand over her scar and skimmed his other hand down her arm to her elbow.

"Can you move it?" he murmured.

"Slowly," she said, her voice coming through the muffling of the pillow.

He eased her elbow up and felt the contraction in her back, the muscles working, but no resistance yet. She let out a slow breath as he moved her arm, and then her hand was up by her head and he could feel the tension rippling beneath his palm.

But her fingers curled and she turned her head, then her body under him so that she was on her back. He lifted his eyebrows, kept his weight on his knees as she grinned slowly. Her fingers wriggled in a little wave.

"See what I can do?"

He laughed and placed his hands in the mattress at her head, dipped down to kiss her softly. She growled and arched up into him, but he felt her draw her arm into her chest, protecting it still. Her hand landed at his sternum, fingers stroking.

"My turn," she whispered, intent and fierce and knowing. "You're hurt too."

He didn't want her to know, but she went over his body with her fingers, tracing the purpled flesh of his bruises, her eyes that unfathomable darkness, her lips drawn down in grief for him. Instead of letting her dwell on all the ways he'd failed, all the beatings, all the grazed bullets, all the times he hadn't been quick enough, he found himself getting out of bed and tugging out the book.

Mark Eastman's book.

He had shoved it into the bottom drawer of the dresser, unable to face it - nearly four months ago.

He pulleded his tshirt on and settled back in bed with her, made her cease fretting over his war wounds and instead stand by him to face this. He needed the support. A partner.

"What's this?" she murmured, and now her fingers trailed across the leather cover. "It looks old."

"Eastman's. Carrie said - he'd written her these letters and anyway, I guess they were about the things he'd done and always wanted to tell her. But couldn't."

Her face lifted to his, a startled and beautiful sorrow in her eyes. "Oh. Oh, that's. . .gorgeous."

"Yeah, Carrie. . .yeah. He was joking with her in a letter, and the way she said it - it was like she'd had an actual conversation with him. Anyway, he said in a letter that I'd probably enjoy this book - this is his family's ancestry. Someone traced their roots and put it all down."

Kate's fingers stilled over the book, her hand curled up. "His family?"

"She told me that his name wasn't Eastman," he said quietly. "And I knew that. I knew it couldn't be. Just like mine isn't Castle-"

"It is Castle," she said quickly, her hand splaying across the cover. "It isn't Black."

She was tense beside him in the bed, the covers pulled up to her waist, her hair loose and tangled around her face. He cupped her cheek and kissed her for that, for her protective and sharp defense of him, instinctive as it was. He'd never had a defender before.

Her mouth opened under him, let him slide right in without hesitance, and even though he wanted to show her this book, he wanted more to have her kissing him like this.

Soft. Sure. Tender.

He realized she hadn't been like that in the barn, that she'd been frustrated and wanting and driven crazy, maybe even angry - and that she'd been demanding and in control, but not this.

She was kissing him like he needed it, like she wanted to give him what he needed.

He couldn't be sure he didn't. Need it. Need her. Need the surety of her, and the tenderness, and the way she made him more than just a spy with no home.

"Rick," she murmured into his mouth. It was question and answer both, and even if they were sometimes terrible for each other - desperate and broken and raw - there were more times like this.

Whole and right and forgiving.

"Does this book tell you Eastman's real name?" she said finally, drawing back enough to rub her thumb over his lips slowly.

He nodded.

Kate turned to the book and spread her hand over it. "Then let's find out."

He swallowed and grasped the front cover, opened to the first page.

Line and Lineage of the Pearce-Klein Family

She'd fallen asleep when they'd only gotten through a few of the earliest stories - Scottish royalty and a Hessian soldier - so Castle closed the book and laid it on the bedside table. His hand came back naturally to her hair; he couldn't resist the wild kink of it, smiled to himself as his fingers tangled in it again.

Full of knots. Really, Beckett, what are you doing?

A knock came at the door and he tensed, glanced down to Kate, but she was still asleep.

"Come in," he said cautiously, then saw the door open and Logan pop his head in.

"Hey, man. Ragle wanted me to check on you guys. You disappeared this afternoon. The horse riding go okay?"

Castle's training took over and he knew not a drop of amusement flickered across his face. "Went well. She's definitely recovering quickly."

Logan grinned, his hand easing from the knob. "She's going fast too. Everything on her own."

Everything on her-

"What do you mean?"

"No help," Logan said with another flashing smile. "No help getting to PT, no help showering, dressing, eating. All by herself for at least - oh, I don't know - the last three months? She's doing great. But hey, we're closing it up for the night. You need anything before I go?"

He shook his head mutely and the door closed after Logan, but Castle's heart was like a stone.

All of it. Alone?

For three months.

The exact time Castle had been. . .well-

Gone.

He'd been gone, hadn't he? He'd abandoned her, a woman who'd been orphaned by her mother's murder and betrayed by her Captain's silence.

And now Castle had as well.

She wasn't surprised to wake with the light and find herself alone, and for a moment, she laid in the bed just breathing, deeper breaths than she'd been able to accomplish in months, let herself luxuriate in this proof of wholeness.

Almost. The scar still pulled.

She was lying on her good shoulder, so she tilted to her back slowly, felt the mattress hitting her spine and pushing on her scar. It hurt, but it wasn't unmanageable. Actually, she was-

A rustling popped her eyes open and she turned her head towards the window, saw Castle sitting in a chair, his silhouette from the morning sun coming in around him. He had a cheap plastic pen in his hand but he dropped it on the windowsill along with whatever he'd been making notes on, and he stood and came towards her.

"Morning," he said, sounding sheepish but offering her a hand.

"Morning." She allowed him to help her sit up and then glanced past him to the bathroom, tried to gear herself up for a shower.

She was worn out with it already, and she'd just opened her eyes.

"What are you still doing here?" she murmured. "I thought you said you and the team were raiding a massage parlor this morning."

"The team is. They don't need me for that today. I'm gonna go into the office later and do some research on Bracken's financials. The sex trafficking money is big time stuff, so it has to be going somewhere."

"Oh," she muttered. "You didn't need to stick around, Castle. Just because of me-"

"I'm not sticking around just for you," he said smoothly, and she realized he'd gone back to the window for his pen and notebook. Actually, that was her notebook, her detective's notebook.

"Where'd that come from?"

He glanced at it like he hadn't realized he'd picked it up. "Oh, it was with your uniform hat. That day you were shot," he said, and she saw the flush climb his cheeks. "You want it back?"

When she shot. Oh. "No. No, I meant. What were you doing with it?"

"Making notes about the case," he said, moving to drop it on the dresser. "Now come on. I want breakfast and you've slept late."

She glanced to the clock. "It's eight."

He grinned back at her, lifted an eyebrow. "But I eat at five. So hustle up, Beckett."

"I need to shower-"

"Breakfast first. I'm starving. I'll make us my famous scrambled eggs. Then you can shower."

After he left. It went unsaid but it was sorta sweet that he wanted her company. Fine. Whatever. A change in her routine wasn't going to kill her.

"All right. Breakfast first."

He kept a close eye on her as she ate, tried not to let her catch him at it. She had a good appetite, much better than it had been, and she'd made french toast while he'd made the eggs. It was nice, bumping hips with her inside the farmhouse's small kitchen, feeling the warmth of her at his side like any other, regular morning.

Almost like it had been. He had visions of maple syrup and that devious smile on her face when she'd promised him it'd be worth the empty calories.

At the table, she sat up, her back away from the chair, and her movements were precise, calculated. She was efficient, no unnecessary flutters of her hand or dips of her head, and while he missed those small and graceful accents to her personality, she still seemed at ease.

When they walked back down the hall towards their room, having an easy conversation about the number of horses held in the barn and how long the CIA had operated Stone Farm, he did pick up on some latent stiffness in her hips, like it wasn't easy for her. And she held her arm carefully, like her shoulder was still painful.

Had to be. She'd been shot in the back. He hadn't expected her healing to go quite as quickly as it had, actually. He'd been shot before and he knew what it took to come back.

He couldn't imagine how she'd managed breakfast after a physical therapy session, even less how she'd managed a shower - the movement over her head to get at her hair had to be impossible for her right now.

But she'd said nothing to him about it. He'd gone from hovering to disappearing, like a switch had been flipped, but it'd been for her the whole time. Her safety, her needs. He'd been wrong in both extremes.

She didn't need him to hover. Look at her. She had recovered faster without him acting like a crutch these past three months.

But she still needed him for some things. It wasn't okay that he had abandoned her either.

Abandoned her.

That's what he'd done. His father had scared him and he'd gone running back with his tail tucked between his legs, left Beckett all alone. And of course she hadn't let Logan help her at all; it'd taken Castle's overbearing bullying to get her to relent to any help in the first place.

He was an idiot. And worse - because once more he'd allowed this case to drag one of them under.

Damn it.

"Castle? You leaving?"

He stood in the threshold and watched her carefully sliding her socks off her feet, getting ready for a shower.

"No," he said roughly. "Not yet."

And then he pushed into the room and moved past her for the bathroom.

"What are you doing?"

"Starting the shower."

He'd be damned if he let it go on like this.

She had no idea what he was doing, but he'd turned on the water and hadn't come back out yet. Did he expect her to submit weakly to his commands? She'd been doing this for months without him.

Beckett scratched at her neck and curled her arm into her chest. Her skin was itchy from last night, hay and horse and-

She felt the flash of heat climb her chest as she remembered why exactly she felt so grimy this morning, and then she wondered if Castle was looking for a repeat in the shower.

She'd like to, but she couldn't manage that. It'd be impossible. And in that clawfoot bathtub, even if she were up to it, it'd be a near thing.

Still, she needed a shower. She could try washing her hair again this morning, see if she could get it with one arm. She'd done a passable job the day before, but yesterday her muscles had been so worn out after physical therapy that she'd just let the water sluice her off and hoped it'd be good enough.

She was damn tired of being an invalid.

Beckett wandered to the dresser as she slowly worked one-handed at the buttons of Castle's flannel shirt. He'd put it over her last night and she'd realized it was easier to get on and off than a tshirt - another point for Castle. She got the flannel down one shoulder and then maneuvered it off the other one, watched it drop to the floor.

It pooled at her feet and she grasped the hem of her tank top, gritted her teeth and attempted to wriggle it off, but it wasn't coming. Fuck that hurt this morning.

Yesterday in the hayloft was coming back to bite her.

She moved on to the sweatpants. Easy enough. She'd work at her shirt later. Her hips were narrow enough that the sweatpants slid right down. Kate was pleased with her effort and she put a hand out to the drawer to gather clothes to change into.

Her eyes were drawn to her notebook. The small leather notepad her father had bought her when she made detective. She didn't use it on the job, really; it was mostly too small for what she liked to do. But from time to time, it came in handy.

She remembered stuffing it and her badge in her uniform hat before going to the funeral. As talismans or mementos. Something. She couldn't remember what happened to them after that, but apparently Castle had kept them for her.

"Beckett."

"Coming," she yelled back, but she found her hand reaching for the notebook and drawing it to her chest.

She flipped through the pages slowly, recognizing her own neat handwriting from cases years past. A witness's description, a hasty notation of a license plate, the number of an all-night Chinese place-

And then Castle's handwriting, cramped and narrow, a little messy, strange in her own notebook. He approached cases completely differently than she did, and she was intrigued to learn how he might be working Bracken.

She shivered, remembering that she was only in a tank top, and scanned his lines looking for something she recognized.

I was a man without roots. You want my story - well you already have it - it's nothing. I can't give you lineages and family crests; there are no stalwart soldiers or brave knights riding out from this Castle. There is just a man. Until you. You had had it all along, my story; the words were caught up in you. With you, now the stories can begin.

She gaped at the words, her fingers trembling, and sat down hard on the bed.

He'd written this.

She fumbled back through the pages until she found the beginning.

Dear Kate

He'd written this for her.

Castle didn't understand the look on her face when she came in through the door; he'd already stripped off his shirt but had left his shorts on, the water was running hot through the moaning pipes, and he was ready to fight her on this if he had to.

But she didn't fight.

"Hey," she said softly.

She came to him in the middle of the bathroom, her tank top rucked up at her hips, so he slid his hands around her waist and skimmed her ribs, watching her.

"Hey there," he murmured back. Her sides were so smooth, her skin warm to his touch.

"You. . ." But she trailed off. She was studying him, her eyes intent on his, but he didn't know what she was looking for.

"Ready to shower?" He moved one hand to let his fingers snag in her hair, scraping it back from her face. She swayed into him and her eyes slipped closed.

"Ready," she murmured.

Carefully, he drew the tank top over her head and tossed it to the floor; she shivered and he saw the way she held her arm close, but she was already moving for the bathtub, pushing aside the curtain.

She disappeared into the shower, and Castle took a fortifying breath and then went in after her.

She'd never survive the way he looked at her.

Not after those words written into her notebook, not after the heat of them had settled so deep in her bones she'd never forget.

She was already lost. Hopeless against him.

And why would she ever want to be against him?

He slid his hands into her hair and the shampoo made soapy lines down her neck and over her shoulders. The water beat hard at her spine but it eased the ache between her shoulder blades and worked at the knots in the small of her back. Every time her eyes opened, she couldn't avoid him - his intensity and his love and his need - and she could barely stand up.

He turned her around under the spray, his fingers scraping at her scalp to rinse the soap out. She felt the cloying heat along her skin and his body at her back; he reached past her for the conditioner.

"You don't have to-"

"Can't get the tangles out without it," he said. The low tone of his voice competed with the white noise of the water and sizzled through her like electricity.

She stood still while he easily worked the conditioner into her hair, felt him tugging at the knots already. She knew it was bad, but she hadn't realized how bad, not until he chuckled and started spreading strands of hair on the bathroom wall, held it up in front of her eyes as it clung to his fingers.

"This normal?"

She sighed. "Yes. Just. Haven't managed to do it myself," she admitted. It was always worse when she couldn't brush it out.

He didn't say anything to that, just continued to soak conditioner in her hair and smooth his fingers through it as best he could.

She turned at the touch on her good shoulder, tilted her head back to let him work all the soap out again. His thumbs at her temples were hypnotic and firm, but he was soon finished and guiding her out of the shower, shutting off the water with a flip of his wrist.

She woke from the trance of his touch to grab for a towel, catching it around her body and drying her eyes, squeezing water out of her hair. Castle's shorts were soaked and plastered to his thighs, and she lifted an eyebrow at him. He shrugged at her.

"I'll change. Give me a second."

He left her in the bathroom to dry off and she went about it slowly, being sure to keep her balance as she rubbed the towel down each leg. Castle was back in a moment with a little wooden chair he'd brought in from the bedroom.

She sank into it gratefully, the towel tucked around her breasts, and she realized Castle was already scraping his fingers through her scalp, trying to tame the wild mane. Her back touched the wood of the chair but she was pleasantly surprised to find that it didn't hurt. Too much.

He grabbed the comb from the counter and dragged it through her hair, her body swaying with the downward stroke. The steam from the shower still curled through the bathroom and touched her skin with moist warmth. Two of his fingers were at her neck as if to hold her still, and the comb scraped over her scalp and worked at the tangles, his every movement strong but careful.

"I love your hair," he murmured, and he used his fingers to work out a snag, his hands warm at her neck.

"I love your hands," she said, didn't mean to say it. She'd said it once yesterday on their ride, and she hadn't meant to ever let it come out of her mouth again. At least, not earnestly like that. She flushed and closed her eyes to feel the deft way he untangled each strand.

She thought he was grinning. He had to be; she could practically hear it. "The hair at your neck is so soft," he grumbled, not in frustration but that low arousal that always licked at her belly. His fingers stroked as if to remind himself of the feel of her hair. "And it stays flat. But this here, around your face - it's crazy curly, kinks up."

She opened her eyes and saw his form in the fogged mirror; the chair creaked with her movement. "I usually blow dry it straight. And I have this oil I put on it to keep it soft."

"I like it curly," he sighed, and his fingers came through and snagged again. "All these tangles. Beckett, you haven't been-"

"No," she said quickly. "I can almost-"

"But for the last three months? Logan would have-"

"No, Castle."

He went silent as he worked at the snarls with her comb, but she knew that he was upset about it. She couldn't understand why. It was her hair.

"I should've been here," he said finally.

"Why?" she asked, lifting her eyes to him in the mirror. She still couldn't see much, but his image was beginning to clear. "Why should you-"

"To do this. To do all the things you need done."

"Castle," she bit out, gritted her teeth to keep from snapping at him. "I can do it myself."

He yanked at a particular dense snarl of hair and she narrowed her eyes at him for it.

"Obviously, you can't," he said back. "You can't even brush your hair, Kate."

"But it's pretty much the only thing, Castle. The only thing. I can walk. I can put on my clothes. I can make my own breakfast. I don't need you hovering over me, crippling me-"

"Kate." His hand clenched around her hair; she could sense that it was tight, that he was trying to control himself.

She swallowed her irritation and tried to come up with better words. "I don't want you tied to me, Castle. We're partners, not-"

"We're partners, and I should've been here."

"I want you out there, Castle. Doing your job. Just like I want to be doing my job. You have to do it for both of us right now, but soon I'll be able to take up the slack."

"You were shot. In my place. I'm-"

"Don't feel so damn obligated. You're not chained to me for life because of it. I'm a cop, Castle. It's what I'm trained to do."

"And that's all?" he growled. "It was just training."

She groaned and rubbed a hand over her face. "No. Of course not. But you can't keep acting like it's so terrible a thing - me trying to save your life. It's what partners do, Castle. Shit."

"Then let me do this. We're partners. Let me-"

"No. I don't need you taking care of me like I'm a child."

"Well, but you-"

"I can walk. I can make my own damn breakfast. I need to do those things if I'm going to get stronger, build my endurance."

"But this, I can help-"

"Damn it," she said heatedly. "Go do your job. Shit. I'll just scrape it back until I can manage it on my own. I'll cut it off if I have to."

He let go of her hair and stepped away, the comb falling to his side. She could see the distance in the mirror, but she couldn't make out his features. His quiet was telling, but the lack of him was gnawing at her insides. Three months and she'd been fine, and one night in a hayloft and she couldn't bear not having him.

He made her crazy. And she ached for it.

And so maybe just now she had overreacted.

"Castle," she started but didn't know what to say.

He was shifting past her to put the comb back on the counter; his withdrawal was like a physical blow. She turned in the wooden chair and snagged him by the wrist before he could leave.

"Rick. I need to be able to walk on my own, make my own breakfast, dress myself. But I was wrong. I still. . ." She lowered her eyes to his hand caught by hers, brought it up to her lips to softly kiss his knuckles. She felt his fingers twitch against her mouth. "I still need your touch. I still want it. So please. Finish."

He unfurled his fingers and pushed them into her hair; she let go of him and lifted her eyes once more to his. She was no good at asking for help, even more terrible at accepting it.

"Kate," he murmured and came to his knees beside the chair, cradling the side of her face. "Love."

And then helplessness fell over his face, and he could only stare at her.

She remembered the writing in her notebook, and she leaned in and kissed his open, wordless mouth.

She hoped they could find ways to forgive each other.